Criminally Insane
by GoodbyeFeist
Summary: Yesterday, I awoke in a coffin of worms.
1. Passion

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**Chapter One**

**P/A/S/S/I/O/N**

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_No one who, like me, conjures up the most evil of those half-tamed demons_

_that inhabit the human beast, and seeks to wrestle with them,_

_can expect to come through the struggle unscathed._

_.Sigmund Freud._

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Neurosis is grossly underestimated.

The exceptionally degenerated public views the condition as the expiration of solid clarity and dismissal of noteworthy recognition. Such a state of psychological unbalance is worthy of incarceration, four white walls, a hefty amount of colorful medications, and constant observation. Rehabilitation is scarce, like a poignant lethal injection that seeps through your bloodstream — neurosis is a viper's favorite poison.

Few realize that neurosis is a psychological excavation, the powerful gift that enables your inner beast to experience the exhilaration of suffocation. The ultimate sadistic gratification, and you, the thirsty masochist, await your bleeding victim and inflict your depraved wound.

Until _you_ bleed to death, experience an epiphany, and take your rightful place next to the Devil.

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_Delicately, he placed her index finger into his mouth._

_His tongue massaged the tip, before swiveling possessively and licking the longitude of the bloody digital._

_The owner of the broken, lifeless being lay submerged in unconsciousness._

_Wrists shackled to the steel chair she was awkwardly seated into;_

_Neck twisted at an uncomfortable angle, mouth agape, glittering skin drenched in pouring blood._

_He removed the digital from his dry lips and then inquired hungrily to the mentally absent victim,_

"_Tell me, do you like the taste of blood?" _

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-x-

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"Tell me…" The words were an echoic assonance. "Do you like the taste of blood?"

Her emerald eyes snapped open, as cold water rushed into her nostrils. Her dilated pupils vaguely documented the uneven surroundings while tiny water bubbles floated beneath her, a black abyss present through the dark sparkling glitter of liquid her head was submerged into. Sleep deprivation swiftly muddled her consciousness, making her slip between bitter reality and a delayed fantasy airplane flight. She contently welcomed sleep, softly persuading her body that she was simply dreaming. She _must_ be dreaming…

Her heavy eyelids lowered with ease, dismissing an upside down world of sheer darkness and queer questions. What a bizarre hallucination, the desert dehydration must had soaked out every inch of water and left her squirming on the burning sand with Thorny Devil lizards. But perhaps the whole ordeal was simply a melodramatic nightmare, with the excruciating realism commanding the sense of touch with the authority of inserted needles beneath her fingernails.

The unbearable thirst transformed her last scattered memories into the perfect cynical metaphor, a rabid rainstorm excluding classic thunder and lightning. She drifted through a mainstream of indiscernible flashbacks that caused little agitation or confusion in their outburst. There was the mysterious forest in the blistering heat of summer, the smell of flesh searing with hot irons, the dullness of fall and nakedness of the forest trees, the crackling lullaby of fingers in thumbscrews, mounds of snow weighing down the tree trunks in the loneliness of winter, the cringing sound of drilling and slicing, the rebirth of spring and tangling weeds, the emitting fizzle of flames, and the vague thought that she was being smothered.

During old and odd spiritual conversations in her youth (which seemed centuries ago…), the blithe and trivial topic had always been preferred method of murder. Sakura had always been unanimous with her choice of annihilation. After all, drowning was such a peaceful curtain call, virtually painless and a lightheaded blur. Similar to floating on a cloud above the sky, your body open to expression, the untamed ocean breeze wildly flaying your locks, only you can't breathe it in. You can never smell the salt again…yet…why was she able to taste it?

The sour flavor mistreated her pallet, burning her cracked and bloody lips.

Alarming urgency charged through her veins, fondly returning with a long forgotten acquaintance: hysteria.

Wait. Slow down! Was this **real**?

The blazing recollections struck her repeatedly, coaxing her abused body to fall victim to an epileptic seizure. The hot flashes came and went in nothing but incomplete forms causing her body's erotic convulsion to grow more violent, a desperate need fueling the attack. Brazen white lights — the smashing of her skull against the wall — a deep incision from her shoulder to her wrist with a rusty scalpel — blinding-pain and electric shocks transcending from her fingertips to her chest — a steaming whip grazing her naked back…

Her memories collided chaotically, crumbling before her eyes in fragmentary pieces since unconsciousness had followed each sadistic satisfaction. Her mind was bombarded with disgusting images; a graphic manifestation was mentally breaking down her delusional numbness and teasing her back to abusive reality.

All at once, her body stiffened like a porcelain doll with dead batteries.

Cajoling her eyes to open again seemed unfeasible, for they reluctantly scrunched against her cheeks while desperately trying to disregard the continuous state of emergency alert. Her self-perpetuating shutdown was swiftly regenerating power. The blankbook was steadily blotting with passage after passage…

Instinctively, her other senses, which had long resigned life, bloomed to existence.

The drowning blindfish's consciousness finally became aware of the critical pressure of sharp nails, clawing the back of her scalp and digging into the tender flesh. A hot wetness running down her neck informed her of the sardonic truth that her consuming destruction was a mixture of salt water and blood. Childishly underrating the situation she persuaded her drained muscles and began to feebly heave herself upwards, out of the soul-stealing liquid.

Immediately, the Devil's hand gripped her bloody tresses with more brutal force and jerked her head downwards once more.

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-x-

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"_Why do you chase pavements?"_

_Asked the aloof White Rabbit._

_Callously, she neglected to respond, and instead opened the armoire's top drawer and grabbed a handful of clothes._

"_Need a hand out of the rabbit hole?" the pale nuisance continued, "or is tiny Alice drowning in the orange marmalade?"_

_Sakura threw the garments into the unzipped suitcase on her red-sheeted bed and then turned to face the incessant prosecutor._

"_Did it ever occur to you that the Queen wants my head?" she offered cynically._

_Kakashi leaned against the wall and stared out the window, at the panoramic city view. _

"_Swallow skepticism and confront the truth," his eyes traveled to her terrified orbs. "The pavement is finally chasing you."_

_The curtains ruffled and the bedspread swayed, as a frail breeze entered the bedroom._

"_But you inadvertently took the wrong road," his eyes passed to the whirling ceiling fan. "And now _he'll_ find _you_."_

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-x-

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Nauseating twilight…

Her hands blindly pounded against the inside of the barrel half of her frame was submerged into. The escalating throbbing tensed her weak muscles. Yet she was compelling her body to violently retaliate, to unfreeze and protect her being, or at least halfheartedly shake away from this underwater world stripping her life. The dissonant resonance almost matched a rhythmical tune, which consequently coordinated with her equally defiant and frightened heartbeat.

Dub, dub…Dub, dub…

By now full-blown hysteria had settled and the proceeding attack was a survival instinct taunted by a foreign male voice, in the echoing corners of her lobes. Though the tips of her cold fingers were numb she felt the popping vessels of his veins as she clawed at his strong arms, using her last whiffs of chakra to penetrate the skin. Her fingernails dug mercilessly into the abuser's arms yet his grip failed to loosen in the tiniest fraction. With her arms awkwardly folded behind her back she continued struggling with her unknown condemner, her body pleading for a morsel of fresh oxygen, her memories smothering her with crude realities.

However, her pinkish curls were still in his restraining grip, acidic water was plunging down her throat, her gargling screaming was resonating in century-seconds, and the White Rabbit had been right all along only Alice was too stubborn and heartbroken to take notice.

_No…not like this…_she encouraged mutely, feeling her lungs overflowing with a burning ardor while her tongue stung with a once celebrated taste. _At least not yet…this will not be my coffin, I will not be buried while withholding such a secret…_

_I refuse to lose._

Sakura suddenly laced her fingers through her top strands and began pulling at her own hair, hopelessly thinking she could rip the roots from her scalp. Her body was swiftly surrendering to the enveloping darkness of nostalgia, immobilizing her retaliation, but her mind was wild with the passion to live.

"Is it the thrill?" a sudden voice met her eardrums, which ached with continuous bursting. "Is it the pathetic croaking as they plead for their lives?"

The unclear question reached her underneath the pressuring water with a two-second delay. Of course, as expected, the query remained unanswered since the addressed was both unable to respond and oblivious to a proper reply.

The slinky, thin nails of his other hand grasped her forehead and without much of an intuitive warning yanked her head out of the salt water steel barrel. However, the transfer was everything but delicate, and the next split second of consciousness Sakura realized that she was coughing, and then vomiting out water uncontrollably. Her shaky hands gripped her throat in restraint until she was finally able to gasp for air, and she inhaled and exhaled deeply, like she would never breathe again.

A sharp stinging struck her face, running through her features like a perilous heat wave. She panted heavily while her arms remained outstretched below her, palms hauling half of her body upwards. She quivered with irrepressible shivers, partially aroused by the dark purple bruises adorning her entire body.

Slowly the chunks of clustered blood and vomit piled up in front of her hunched form…

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-x-

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_Tsunade coiled a brilliantly, blonde lock around her index finger, eyes astray._

"_Who's to say that when no one's looking time shifts and moves faster than it's supposed to?"_

_Sakura rolled her eyes, circling the rim of her glass with her fingertip. "You're the Caterpillar in my life."_

"_Melt my heart to stone, bitch." Tsunade blarneyed._

_They were surrounded by three empty bottles of scotch._

_Raindrops pattered against the roof, sliding down the windowpanes of the bar._

"_So she died," Tsunade stated bluntly, "So do hundreds of thousands, every single day."_

_Sakura rose from the stool, planting several bills onto the wooden counter._

_Tsunade rested her elbow on said counter and dug a hand into her tresses. "Where are you off to, Scrubs?"_

_Sakura shrugged her shoulders. "To taste suicide."_

"_There's some opium left in my goody drawer," Tsunade offered._

_Sakura smiled miserably. "Advice from a Caterpillar always ends with the same repercussions."_

"_Striptease?"_

"_Peptic ulcer."_

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-x-

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Systematic apparitions glowed in the dark.

Her body finally responded to the previous abuse, her mind crashed into the panel of the present, and Sakura Haruno suddenly comprehended the true severity of the situation, the hopelessness of the inevitable. If she died in the next excruciating minutes, then so would hundreds, perhaps even thousands. And one life in particular would be shattered to pieces…

Her lower lip trembled, and she bit down on it with her front teeth, causing blood to trail down her chin. To show fear in the presence of the Devil was accepting defeat, and this was the final game, and although she had lost every single battle — she would not lose the war.

Sakura touched her tender cheek with her palm, comforting the swollen flesh, cloyingly studying her surroundings from the corner of her eye. Although she could not see them through the impenetrable darkness she could feel them following her every move, enjoying the blissful disorientation of their latest playtime sacrifice. As always, they were hidden in the shadows, like obedient little demons, waiting for their master to flick his wrist and set a command.

The pattering sound of footsteps in front of her ceased, and there was a loud, hoarse intake of breath. "I believe it's the chase," the repulsive abuser offered conversely. "That animalistic cannibalism inside of all of us."

She refrained from looking up in his direction, and instead concentrated on minimizing his echoing voice to a single verse. But it felt like a nail was being hammered into her skull and the smallest tapping raged like a feral waterfall. She found herself jerking at the silent 'splats' caused by her attacker, who was chipping off the dangling flesh of his arms and listlessly flinging them to the ground while he paced the room.

She twisted her head to the side and squinted slightly, salty tears fogging her vision. She challenged her brain to create links to ever surface inch, to somehow generate the perfect escape plan while the sadistic addict before her still rambled on about schizophrenic tendencies. So far the only known facts were that she stood underneath a wide shadow in the heart of a withered temple, what she guessed was the desert wind was pounding against the high oak doors, demanding entrance.

Her body's shaking grew worse and she found herself unable to detect the source. Was it another compulsive seizure? The harsh, bitter cold of the lowering temperature? Why on earth was her clothing simply a one piece attire composed of a bloody and once white long-sleeve shirt?

She glanced behind her, discerning the overhead shadow casting her in darkness as a wide, brass Buddha. His lifeless eyes seemed to be drilling holes into her back with hot accusations, founded on truths that she wasn't particularly pompous of.

Her arms faltered and her face plummeted to the ground painfully. Sakura's body became disobedient, stiffening agonizingly, jamming her joints, and forcing her to remain terrifyingly still prior to her first mental-physical paradox. Her fingers began to curl and uncurl, her collarbone shook violently from side to side like a squirming snake, and all she could manage was to pray that her tongue would simply stray from the path of her clattering teeth. Her eyelids traveled upwards and she became submerged in something far more terrifying than mere water, she was immersed in the sensation that she was truly going to die.

But death was too easy of an escape.

So the Grim Reaper snapped his fingers and little Sakura's eyelids lowered after what seemed like several tormenting minutes. Her body coming to a temporary shutdown again. She blinked repeatedly, double-vision fading, and brushing intrusive bangs out of her eyesight. She was finally watching his feet pacing from right to left in front of a single steel chair.

An inviting steel chair.

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-x-

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"_Say my name, Sakura…"_

_Drip. Drip._

"_Say it."_

_Rip. Rip._

_She could feel his raspy, hot breath on her ear. _

_Hear the flapping wings of the thirsty Jabberwock._

_One, two! One, two!_

"_I can keep a secret," she murmured._

_Crash. Crash._

_Her body slowly slid down to the floor._

_His fingertips were covered in blood._

_They were surrounded by shattered glass._

_Sakura laughed scornfully, chest heaving. "What's it like being dead, Naruto?"_

_He smiled, resting beside her. "You tell me."_

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-x-

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A lanky fluorescent light stood beside the chair.

The greasy chains of time quirked, whirling timidly, closing lapses of memory-loss. The foggy recollection played out before her eyes: her body appeared on that desolate chair and she recounted the truth held by hours long past. Dreaming and translucent Sakura was tied with thick and venomous rope, her skin glittering with a red glow.

_Surprise!_

A different voice had chanted, and then a loose transparent bag was placed over her head, and she could no longer breathe. Her eyes widened, her shoulders fought against the ropes feebly, the bag constricted and expanded rapidly with rushing air.

Sakura panted against the concrete floor, watching the ordeal fade and then being swiftly replaced by a more awake Sakura glancing downwards at her feet, whimpering, with cloaked shadows surrounding her in a ceremonial circle.

_This one is my favorite, helps me cut out the prettiest shapes out of human flesh,_ yet another foreign voice said and a sharp rod with twisted ends (that resembled a rather oversized bottle-opener) was shoved before her eyes, an inch from her pupil. _Did you know it's possible to crack a hole into the skull of a human being and then fill it with hot water? Of course, the person becomes brain dead…maybe we should do a little experiment, eh?_

Sakura's panting became shallower.

_Let's make a hole…right through your pretty little eye…_

"I think it's that sadistic pallet."

She jerked slightly, terrified, as a whisper tickled her ear and lips brushed against it, his tongue licking her lobe perversely. Unfortunately she'd been so entrapped in her own reverie that she had failed to notice his rather hasty relocation. He was now kneeling down beside her, biting her earlobe sensually.

The hairs on the back of her neck stood, shivers crawled up her spine, as his lips suddenly hovered above her face and he grabbed her chin, forcing her to look up at him.

"_Fuck you…Itachi…"_ she breathed.

Those infamous bloodshot eyes preyed her own, while gleaming under the midnight full moon of the desert. The temple roof completely amiss. She felt his thin fingers caressing her cheek, entranced by her disheveled and helpless appearance.

Sakura closed her eyes in disgust. "Don't fucking touch me."

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-x-

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_The blacksnake's posture was firm, hands simply sleeping in his pockets._

"_I fucking hate you!" Sakura screamed, bloody tears storming down her rosy cheeks, while assaulting his chest repeatedly with her palms._

_He merely stood perfectly still, a silent predator, and failed to protect his person in the least._

"_Why did you do that? Why?" She questioned repeatedly, desperation tainting her every syllable._

_Her muscles were buckling, her strikes become feebler, her rage fading…_

_He remained silent, unresponsive. _

_She crashed against his chest, panting heavily, and wrapped her arms around his arms and back._

_Her cries intensified._

"_If he dies," she whispered with hoarse sadness. "I will never forgive you, Sasuke-kun…"_

_The Cheshire Cat smirked. "You've gone absolutely mad."_

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-x-

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Dub, dub…Dub, dub…

She was slipping between awareness and nothingness, lost in the inner rhythm of her heart. One second she would feel his fingernails rasping against her neck, the other, callous fingers brushing through her locks, even a chilly knuckle caressing her forearm. And then all the shy physical contact ceased and a blinding concussion crept into her overheated mind.

There lay the rendered sitting target, sprawled on the concrete floor. Eyelashes fluttering upwards, and then soon afterwards quickly descending…

When had the Mad Hatter walked away? Why had the Queen crowned her heiress? Was the pitter-patter lonely raindrops or firm steps?

His last words reached her congested eardrums, just as he slammed the tall oak doors closed behind his leaving form, into the dark desert wasteland.

"Kill her," was the simple order.

How much time passed after that? Who know? Who cares? Maybe seconds, perhaps minutes, probably hours. But the Caterpillar was probably correct in her scornful assumption; time was your bitter ex-lover. Elongating bloodletting madness, contently watching the raggedy doll being thrown from corner to corner, from hand to hand, from monster to demon. From hurting to numbness.

And then Alice walked through the Looking-Glass.

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-x-

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_She cruised the narrow corridors, the main labyrinth of cupboards and bookshelves._

_Taking deliberately slow steps, she read the tattered covers._

_Her finger grazed the labels…_

_Although the imperial library remained deserted she fiddled with the woven scarf twisted around her neck, adjusted the dim sunglasses, and pulled down her beret. The flickering lights from above made ghostly patterns on her worn jeans and her wet sneakers continued the soft moaning of, "Squish, squish."_

_Her right hand shuffled a deck of cards nervously, tapping it against her thigh._

_At last she stopped abruptly, the awkward title calling out to her._

_She gently grasped the book and drew it out._

_But the second the being escaped from its constricting prison, from the other side of the large hundred foot bookcase…_

…_stared back a cold red eye…_

_Her grip on the book fumbled, and it tumbled to the floor._

_Unintentionally opening to the last page…_

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-x-

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Ace of Spades, King of Diamonds, the Queen of Hearts…

The disdainful tarot cards of existence burned to fiery oblivion, transferring into a simple game of war. The rules were plain and brief in sum, versed to such effortlessness that brewing destruction was brutally overlooked. Choose your boundaries, set your traps, defy your enemies, feed the ego, and slaughter your allies.

Are you game?

…_are you Sakura?_

Droplets of blood rained down onto the filthy concrete, untidy splatters tainted the discolored walls with an auburn scheme; the cascading fluid swiveled down through the cracks and collected at the corners, masquerading, imitating glistening wallpaper.

Similar to useless marionettes, they plummeted limply to the ground. The careless puppeteer had left the rebellious playthings with missing extremities, discarded in haste turbulence. Slashed throats, niftily twisted spines, disfiguring lacerations: why had the puppets been so naughty? Did they not know that the possessor of the strings gave them life? And could just as easily cut the thread?

The ordeal was a disorienting blur, a disorderly uproar of hot flashes, unconventional pain, and nauseating gore. Such bravado deserved to be accompanied by, at least, a tall glass of wine…

Sadly, blood would have to suffice.

"P-Please!" came the stumbled word, followed by a senseless, "NO!"

The thick shackles clasped around her ankles jingled sweetly, while they rasped against the wet floor. Impassively, she paused before the final survivor, spread out on his back in forlorn surrender and with a snippily massive slice of glass incrusted in his chest. It seemed someone else had tried to walk through the Looking-Glass, how pathetic; only a select few possessed such bulletproof bribery.

He was mumbling incoherently, delirious with the iron-like odor of the surrounding graveyard.

She flicked the barrel of salt water beside her with her index finger, an aggressively commanding motion that sent the heavy object whirling onto the stooge's body. The brusque burden immediately crushed his cranium, yet she continued watching while his body twitched, until the gushing water drenched her feet and washed away the staining blood from stone.

_Twist the card. Joker?_

_I believe you lost the war._

Abruptly, her knees buckled beneath her. The bubbling energy within her being dissipating like an exhausted cigarette. Déjà vu renewed with every slight movement throbbing grandly, crippling cramps overwhelming her form. Now on her knees in utter silence, she finally sensed the small stream of blood trickling down her head and cheek. Her vacant eyes were a cloudy green, muddy and worn, yet genuine satisfaction kept a rather smug smirk covering her features.

It wasn't a grin, or a nervous twitch, but a crooked leer. A satisfied, hungry look…

_Tick-tock, tick-tock!_

"You'd cut your own tongue for a taste of blood. Wouldn't you, Sakura?" an unrecognizable female voice pondered aloud, in an amused tone.

The rhythmic clinking of pointed heels echoed throughout the panic room.

In truth, it wasn't a question.

Sakura ceased examining her reflection in the pond of blood beneath her and raised her gaze upwards, ignoring the overshadowing sensation of fatigue. The cabalistic night lay heavy with calorie stars, yet from her meager position on the ground Sakura could only perceive bouffant yellow lace, an expensively ethereal material that served as the bottom of a charcoal and corseted gown, devoid of sleeves.

The bewitching woman above her had a cascade of strawberry blonde curls, surrounding her strongly defined, square-jawboned face of delicate grace. Her wide eyes were an ambiguous cerulean, outlined by thick eyeshadow and assented by her inhumanly pale appearance.

The statuesque stranger kneeled down slowly, and then copped Sakura's cheek gently. Sakura found her fingertips freezing cold — glacier stiff, like a rotting corpse.

"They say the Devil's water is a bittersweet. But that doesn't mean that you can't dip your _feet._" She patronized softly.

But Sakura was already bathing in the Devil's water, like a plum, red sin…

Sakura's emerald pupils could not look away from the alluring yet monstrous eyes. They were like luminous diamonds, yellowish-blue, rare rocks only found in the Earth's deepest core. Closest to Hell…

Her visitor rose leisurely, revealing dark red slippers with a glittering twinkle.

The majestic Queen smirked, proudly. "Welcome, to the Lost Hybrids."

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"_Want to hear a fairytale?"_

_The tiny schoolboy nodded feebly, coughing into his pale palms, and then hugging the overstuffed pillow fondly._

"_Do you know the story of the Man Who Sold the World?" his mother conspired secretively, brushing a hand through his crimson locks, teasing the tips._

_The child nodded 'no' rigorously while adjusting beneath the thin and mingy woven blanket, impatiently awaiting the splendid revelation._

_Malevolent raindrops scurried and collapsed against the sole bedroom window._

_His mother grinned, perching the book upon her lap. "It all began at a mad Tea Party…"_

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_Would you like a cup of blood?_

His crooked, dislocated digitals trembled, blood trailing down the forearms: the grasp on the splintered cross — firm. With a jolt of senseless agility the cross was incrusted into the barren ground, as dark, fat droplets of impure rain pelted down like thorny petals.

A scorpion nestling on a nearby rock scrambled off into the orange sand, its tiny feet rustling with fragmentary infection, as it scurried for shelter from the aggressive storm. Above, the sky rumbled in distaste, thunder flattening the horizon and lightning illuminating the lifeless landscape distorted to unrecognizable scraps, disfigured to inhumane proportions, deteriorated to mounds of ember, chalky bone and watery mud.

_Pull the trigger! Safety's on? Ugh…just pass the plate…_

Savage gusts smashed against the leaves of the eastern sky-scraping forest trees, several miles away. However, below the heart of the storm lay a region of land that had once belonged to the dense woods and mountainous environment: a star-shaped crater. Sadly, the lanky trees had been burned to an ashy crisp, boulders mutilated to meaningless dirt, houses had been blown into the wind, and the once-upon-a-time village now indulged in abandonment with the dead.

This was the china-décor dinner. He was the wolf…

Naruto panted heavily, fingers curling around the wet wood, and knees sinking into the crimson mud.

The floating leaves mimicked silent whimpers; a ghostly symphony tuned with the pace of spreading plague scourging the flesh. It was as though a 'great big monster' disguised behind a fragile human face was leading the eerie concerto, the huffs, and puffs of destruction.

_More paprika? Oh no, lick the poison off your fingers! Before it soils your sleeves…_

Tears trickled down his cheeks and over his bloodied tattooed whiskers, glistening with commanding mutation and unsteady narcosis. Pathetic, no? The conductor and involuntary passenger of his own merry-go-round, the creator of this unmanageable machine, the fuel giving it its potent strides. The patron of this decaying fairyland…

Naruto's blue irises had dilated to their climax, making his vision queasily blurry and uneven, hyper with paranoia. His notorious orange jumpsuit was ripped with precise zigzags and crisscrosses, beneath, fresh wounds carved his legs and arms with decorative scars. The renegade choked with hefty tears, the passionate cries dying in his throat and emerging as agonizing sobs.

His novelette wasn't particularly mythological, as often interpreted by ill-informed storytellers. For simply there once lived a fair-haired child by the name of Naruto, an optimistic satellite orbiting some clueless planet in the third solar system. A flamboyantly opinionated stint of opium, with needlepoint stupidity (commonly referred to as a nicotine-frenzied nightmare, by another unstable blossom). Infamous for an insatiable appetite for overcooked noodles, fleeing mental orientation, lively outbursts, and childish outmaneuvering (except in the wits department). Konoha grandly despised the unorthodox, so the ill-bred orphan, and cocooned demon, was considered the spreading fungus in their otherwise clean society. And from one day to the next, said spreading infection merely disappeared…leaving a trail of bloody footprints behind…

The useless diligence to overtake his innate thirst for diabolical pleasures mocked his moans.

His palms were still wrapped with the white gauze, red staining through the fabric as his hands closed even tighter against the sharp bladed sides of the cross. It dug into his palms, slicing his skin with ease. The consuming pain was ecstatically welcomed, obsessively relished…

Swiftly, small shapes began forming while more blood seeped through the gauze. It was parallel to watching a painting paint itself — in soft, delicate, invisible strokes. The desperado observed one blemish of blood in particular, that was twirling and coiling around itself like a spring rose…

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-x-

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"_Once upon a century, in the Baroque cemeteries of London lived a lonely fox. It cruised the snow-smothered tombstones from midnight to sunrise, like the deranged beast it was. Whilst the sun raped the horizon, it hid in the core of a fig tree amidst the dead. It never passed the iron gates around the burial grounds, licked the melting icicles on the protruding trees, or ate a single morsel, even of bread."_

_The child pouted his lips, discomforted by the glazed ambiguity._

"_The deplorable being did not understand why his flesh would not deteriorate, why his breath would not cease, or why his heart compelled him to journey among those long gone. But then on a vanity night of stars, the Devil appeared before the puzzled beast, and offered that which he oh so dearly longed."_

_The boy chewed his bottom lip now, fingertips absentmindedly brushing his ear._

"_He said…" his mother turned the page slowly, "'My Son, for that is who you truly are, have been damned to these ungainly grounds, to roam among those whose lives you have renounced.'" Her eyes drifted upwards, and she could see her son's wide eyes were just as perplexed as the fox's. "'I know not of which you speak,' said the fox, 'for I have no recollection where I am not covered in fur or dying of starvation in smothering spring.'"_

_The heavy rainfall collected on the windowsill. _

"_The Devil smirked all knowingly and announced, 'For such a horrible fate and existence you can only blame one. Your heathen love for the daughter of a saintly cherub.'"_

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-x-

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Naruto wanted to dig his hands into the dense mud, to feel the marshy ooze slipping through his fingers. Scratching his flesh with scattered, pint-sized crystal…

His pupils clouded to pitch black. His ears decidedly deafened.

'_I wrote this song for you…'_ The memory was a suspension of time, without suspense. There was a wide circular room, with a grand black piano; moonlight was seeping through the thin curtains.

'_It's simple…mainly because I was never very good to begin with.' Naruto shrugged his shoulders, fingers dancing on the white keys, head tilted back and eyes mutely closed. 'My mother only taught me a few songs. But I never truly pursued it…after she died…' there was no sadness in his voice, just poignant resignation._

_He hummed along to the frail sonata of a pale and sickly tune. The melancholy song tickled their drums, for the belle piano cry was like a river flowing mere feet from their seated position on the withered bench. A sound so placid, truthful and sweet, it made their mouths water with an artificial toffee._

_A rare, juicy fruit…_

'_It's called My Way Home,' He smiled absentmindedly, blushing at some unknown inside jest. '…I haven't played in years…yet now I can't untangle my fingertips from the keys…' his tone mocked his fleeting self-control, disgusted by his current actions._

_His hands came down on the piano suddenly, with violent determination, causing a shrilling wail to escape the wooden creature as the song came to an abrupt and unfitting end. Tensing silence pursued…_

'…_I think it's because you inspire me…' he murmured cynically, finally straightening his neck and glaring at the emptiness before him. Swiftly, he leaned down his face towards the keys and snorted the delicately dispersed opium on them, in uneven powdery lines._

_She said nothing, as she watched him indulged his addiction._

'…_do you believe in Hell?' she asked in a faint whisper._

The deafening strike of a lightning bolt electrocuting a stray tree sent the meek branches ablaze, even under the heavy downpour. The piano composition drowned into nothingness, it burned within that law defying fire consuming its helpless victim. Naruto's pupils returned to their aqua-marine sheen, but pure emptiness filled them, as though he belonged in a coffin six feet beneath the dirt.

He felt like the boy, no, the man, who'd sold the world, and now had nothing left but empty apologies…

And as irony might have it, just as blood trickled down his ears, his mouth, and even his forehead through a gash underneath which lay his partly cracked skull, Naruto had just turned fourteen the second the clock struck twelve o' four. Happy Birthday Monster, blow out your candles, send the three little pigs scuttling.

His keen nose did not pick up the smell of cherry cake or watery punch, instead he was catered to the intense odor of ashes, burned flesh, and the blood of innocents. How peeving such emotional unbalance could be. While being ripped to pieces by an overpowering wrath he'd done nothing but watch as his outer body licked — savored — tasted, seductive supremacy. That hyping drug rushing through his system still, such an addicting substance…

Finally, his pupils adjusted to the hovering fog of damp dust, permitting the ability to scan the premises. Jagged, black crosses surrounded his wounded form, some stood above broody patches of land, and others held dangling shell necklaces or old, burnt marionettes.

His fists closed even tighter against the cross he held, the cuts in his palms becoming wider. But he still felt nothing except a tiny sting.

There were dozens of crosses, hundreds in a grander perspective, some slightly bent by the rushing wind, others standing erectly above their dead companion like obedient guardian dogs. Naruto's hands, surprisingly, slid off the final cross he held, allowing his arms to fall to his sides lifelessly. His prickly blonde hair was pasted to the corners of his face, the tears trailing down his cheeks became disguised with the raindrops, and a stray shovel lay incrusted in the land beside him.

_Huff, and puff, and blow their souls down!_

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-x-

.

_She licked her fingertip and then turned yet another page._

"'_You met in The Great Divine,' the Devil began simply, while resting above on a decaying tree branch. 'A mad Tea Party fashioned by the archangels of heaven, and guardian demons of hell, at the end of time.'"_

_The full moon slowly rose into the vicinity of the window, while the child's eyes drooped unsteadily as he resisted overwhelming sleep._

"'_Your eyes met across the linen-clothed table, past entrées of gold and derailing chatter. She, the descendent of wings and wholesome goodness, sipping white wine in derivative red. And you, the heir of oblivion, drinking down pure royal blood and contemplating expandable doom. You fell in love in a fatal swoop; she scorned your affection and walked past your pleading form, wearing her condescending Plato shoes.'"_

_The boy rubbed his eyes, a weary yawn escaping his being._

"'_She was not impressed by your monstrous abilities, calling them egoistical cheap tricks.' The Devil mocked, glaring down at the fox, 'your methods were barbaric, your gifts childish and rotten; for centuries you followed this misleading sheep. And at the end of your wit and consuming passion you realized that there was only one object worthy of representing your true devotion thus leading to her sanction.'"_

_The thick wind shook the rickety roof tiles._

"'_Your life.'"_

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-x-

.

Before him lay yet another accursed grave, an irreligious resting place dug by unholy hands. Now in the worm-infested ground hid an unnamable casualty, stripped from the few commodities worth living for. Never again having the chance to run through the forest in search of hidden treasures…laughing at some dismissive joke at the expense of a close friend…crying at the bedside of their sickly mother…feeling great anguish swinging alone in the playground, watching the world pretend they didn't exist…and sin, biting right into the plum apple and taking a large chunk out of someone's heart before spitting it out in disgust.

This was the only cross with a name.

In clear Japanese characters the engraved inscription read _Naruto Uzumaki._

Though by now the hostile raindrops had squashed his bangs down onto his eyes, obscuring half of his face, keeping his identify a secret was as impossible as the refusal of saintly deprivation.

For you see today, that boy, Naruto, died. He departed in that desolate battlefield, took his last breaths among the dead. Spent his last hours repenting his thirst for blood…

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-x-

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"…_his life…" the child whispered, a cold chill crawling up his weak spine._

"'_You jumped off the tallest towers, swam to the deepest depths of the ocean's carols. Slit your wrists, decapitated your body, smoldered your flesh down volcano valleys. But immortality clung like a starving leech, even as your vile angel breathlessly encouraged, pull the trigger, kill the beast.'"_

_Outside, a rhythmic dull clamor persisted, whilst an old fruit vendor pushed his half-full cart through the pouring rainfall. But the wobbly wheels continued grounding into the path's sand._

"'_I shall steal the Jar of Death, you concluded,' the Devil chided and catered the fox to a disappointed frown, 'and you did, and shattered the fragile crystal, giving birth to death, the useless clown. Then you plunged a dagger through your heart, a poisoned dart, all this nonsense for your love. Now you see, deplorable being? Because of you mankind shall die, and God has granted you forever life. And now your angel flies above the clouds adorned with pearls,' the Devil waved to the grey sky above, 'and you remain, a subtle torn.'"_

_The child raised a shaky hand to his face._

"_The fox whimpered for a small while and then asked the Devil the reason for his confession. The Devil laughed and said good-naturedly, 'my ungrateful Son, it is time to rage war against the heavens. I came to collect your body after the century seven, so you can fly above, smile a pearly gleam, and collect your angel's head…So come with me…'"_

"_M-mommy…"_

_The mother looked up from the last passage._

_Her son's hand was drenched in blood, a small stream flowing down from his nose._

_In the far distance, a fox howled._

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-x-

.

The domesticated demon had finally chewed his way through the leash.

He deserved to drink from the goblet of death.

_How rude, you drank all the wine!_

Soft footsteps, echoed by the gentle tapping of wooden sandals against the deep amidst puddles, dawned from behind him. Naruto became startled, almost hopeful, as he turned his head towards his new visitor, the lone survivor of his insatiable appetite.

Oh what a peculiar individual stood in the starlight, right beside him now, quietly reading his epitaph. Unfortunately this sudden stranger had a rather large straw hat, which made recognition impossible, and elongated his neck. He was akin a wistful tortoise…

His attire was very feministic; he wore what almost seemed like a kimono with a petal pattern of adjacent colors in halo blue, only tightly wrapped around his body like a warrior's armor. It was in the form of a low-cut vest with wrist length sleeves and rather loose pants to his ankles. A long coat hung over his shoulders, flaying in the wind rather dramatically, but not diminishing his relaxed appearance.

A long sword in a silver sheath was tied to the velvet sash that serves as his belt; the reflection of the full moon on the blade created glowing shadows on the ground.

His faced titled towards Naruto, and he smiled then, warmly, as though they weren't standing in a newly created graveyard or under a reproachful storm.

As though Naruto's hands weren't tainted with blood.

He leaned down and placed one knee on the ground before extending his hand in greeting before him. "Naruto Uzumaki, I presume?" he solicited, voice suave with composure.

Naruto nodded vaguely, unable to grasp the developing situation.

The visitor's smile widened and he announced blissfully, "Welcome to Hell."

Several yards away from this fated meeting lay a torn book half dug into the pasty mud. A wild breeze hit the pathetic creature jus then, causing the cover to shut against the worn pages. And in golden, cursive letters the lonely book's title shone beneath the worshipping moon, secretly whispering…

'_The Man Who Sold the World…'_

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_I can give you everything you've ever desired._

_I can destroy all your enemies._

_Grant you unlimited power._

_All you need to do is…_

I accept.

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.

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.

It was a disgusting swamp.

A dark-green marshland beneath the weeping moonlight, slithering with overgrown trees and pestering insects thirsting for tainted purity. The night's star-glazed reflection on the marsh's murky surface provided the illusion of two skies, two unattainable heavens, two unconquered paradises with chaffing elite disposing of their trash in the form of life and death.

So could this mean that angels were roaming the heated liquid? That it was a divine archangel whom was striding knee-length deep in the watery jungle of questionable rainfall? Did this dark figure audaciously walking forward in the unspoken forbidden land hide porcelain wings while continuing a straight path, past tall blades of grass springing from small parcels of land, and unfed hidden crocodiles?

Was it an angel, whose cold red pupils followed the trail of playful fireflies with disdain as they perused around him?

Oh no, it was not an angel. Sasuke Uchiha was no angel.

Perhaps rebellious would provide a better definition, if you wish to be vague, or even psychopathic idealist, if you wish to wander from the truth. But he was most certainly not lost. He hadn't taken a wrong turn nor did he receive a map foregoing. The pulsating mark on his neck had provided sufficient directions, like the call of venomous fangs from a vampire, a scorching thrust seeped through his veins. And suddenly there was no East, West, South, or North. There merely lay Forward.

Beneath the water his feet encountered jagged rocks and unsettling creatures; however, his stealth was far too cunning for such organisms bred in the darkness. His raven black locks were wildly rustled by the rowdy winds, which unanimously created small whirlpools near the tallest trees spiraling out of this forgotten and misplaced river decorated by fungus and bacteria. Multitudes of lanky trees surrounded him, and they all seemed to have been birthed from the water, not ground, as though even the soil was repulsed by their existence.

The bite mark seethed his flesh. Oh how grand, he was closer now…

The branches above had grown so thick that he would confidently stake the entire village of Konoha that during the earliest hours of sunrise, when the sun is vibrantly blonde and obnoxious for exposure, not a single ray could penetrate through. But then again, Konaha truly wasn't worth much of a gamble.

There was no true life in this place to destroy.

The accursed burning ceased as Sasuke stilled in front of the largest and widest tree in the black haven, one that stood so high it seemed impossible to spot the summit. It held discolored and newborn leaves, a creature in an unstable balance between life and death, with sparkling cherry blossoms on the branches' tips and hundreds of feet and years in its history. Our demon examined the sight with distaste; he could almost smell that _thing _again…could feel its eyes following him hungrily…

It had most certainly been a colorful weekend.

The wide bark held an opening at its heart, like an open wound helplessly unstitched — _a bacterial breeder of intoxicating curiosity_ (as someone had previously phrased it to him, in delicate terms). Its roots were above the water, entwined in a beautiful swirl that created a maze of wood, a basket of entangling snakes.

Now, standing idle in the freezing marsh the venom seemed to pump swifter through his bloodstream. The feeling could only be compared with little sharp stones clogging your veins; meanwhile the insistent flow pushes them onward, slicing the veins into halves. His left fist shook whilst he trembled, electric shocks of abused chakra dancing from digital to digital. In his other hand, the pale right, a black orb stilled his fist. Awkwardly, even through the curled fingers around the apple-sized ball, ghostly faces moaning in pain could be seen scratching the glass surface…

He had yet to whimper once.

Inadvertently he camouflaged with the enclosing environment, but his clothing always held the usual dark pigments. He didn't need such useless battling tactics; he preferred hasty face-offs over calculating ambushes. As always, his stance was loosened, his features relaxed, and a discontent frown with brooding eyes glared at the surrounding world, annoyed by its perpetual sluggishness.

Blood sprinkled out his neck from the rancid bite, a ripped nerve that he'd long ceased to put pressure on, finding it ineffective and a clear waste of time.

Blood was blood, it could always be replaced.

"My dear boy!" the taunting heavy voice resonated from within the bark. Although it sounded enthusiastic the tone was flaky and sickly, as though the throat was congested with rising vile. "Back so soon?" it posed eagerly.

Sasuke narrowed his eyes, feeling like an early delivery boy knocking on the door of the town's haunted house. Glaring through the impenetrable darkness accomplished nothing, except bringing a light memory accompanied by the whiff of undead grass, the glare of early sunshine, and a soft 'Sasuke-kun', that he quickly disposed to the back of his subconscious.

"I came for the Eyes of Katsumoto." He declared simply, fingertips drumming against the orb in his hand.

Déjà vu could be such a nuisance.

An aggravating silence quivered in the air, for every crackle on the hefty branches, splash of hidden tentacles, and even quick intakes of breath by unwanted critters ceased altogether. In perfect unison.

Long-fingered hands suddenly appeared out of the shadows, gripping the bark core from both sides, before someone hauled out of the massive tree. Yet considering the grotesque appearance, it was more of a something than someone.

"My souls?" it exclaimed, caressing its lips with razor-sharp fingernails.

Sasuke threw the orb into the air carelessly, where it was caught speedily by the creature's reptilian claw.

Sasuke's breathing was becoming raspier, he was panting quietly now, and growing paler with every passing second. The only feature that still had some color were his crimson lips, revived by the moistness of the atmosphere. He watched as the creature gushed over the orb enthusiastically, fingers dappling over it as though he wished to miraculously change it from bitch black to pure white.

Sasuke raised an eyebrow, while watching the loving patting fiasco. This thing was honestly insane…

But then again what else could be expected, its appearance screamed _the world hates me_. Its flesh was dangling, centuries old, and faded yellow like a textbook's pages. It reminded him of the flapping ears of elephants. The legs looked withered, putting it lightly, and far too skinny to hold anything up — it seemed as though its skin had been starving and eating away its fat until it reached the very bone. Its frog feet were probably the repercussions of mutation from being damned to this lost corner of time. It sickened him to be in the presence of this subhuman…

It brought the object closer to its face, fingers circling the smooth surface still.

Sasuke grunted in annoyance, the odd behavior had lasted far too long for his liking. Perhaps he should inform the delusional thing that it had no eyes. For a nose it had two small holes, and for a mouth a wide snout parallel to a bullfrog's, but no dainty bulging eyes twinkling merrily. No eyes to examine the delicate black circle of Hell in his hands.

"Ninety-nine souls," Sasuke broke the silence, hoping to speed the transaction along, breathing heavier now. His lungs felt as though they were swollen and pounding against his ribcage, his heart was being slowly crushed underneath all the pressure. "As you requested," he finished, leaving a hint of expectance in the thin air.

"Oh yes, most intriguing," It answered almost immediately, as low as a whisper. "You have given me ninety-nine tainted souls. Criminals — murderers — savages…"

"You asked for ninety-nine," Sasuke cut in irritably, color returning to his cheeks momentarily. "You never specified the condition of the soul." He spat crudely.

The creature seemed to consider the revelation for a moment, weighing his choices in a fraction of a second. Before Sasuke could retort another sarcastic remark it was placing its fist inside its mouth. Sasuke watched in disgust, speculating that the only sensible reason was desired purging. But its hand only reached further and further down its throat, while its stomach began upward plunges. Until finally, after several heavy seconds, its fist resurfaced and was spread open, to reveal a pair of eyes, sticking together with black goo and slightly boiling from the stomach acid coveting them.

Sasuke looked unimpressed.

"Just one more task to complete and these eyes will finally be yours," It straightened its fingers further, the joints crackled. "The Eyes of the Underworld, eyes able to see your worst nightmares, to envision the perfect massacres, to mutilate the most invincible of warriors…"

Sasuke rolled his eyes. This bad advertising motto had gone long enough.

Irritation didn't even begin to describe what he felt. His body was weakening greatly, something unheard of for him, with every minute he stood in this bloody marshland.

"What the _hell_ is it?" he demanded crossly.

The creature laughed sardonically, sensing his apprehension.

Sasuke felt the earth beneath him tremble, and glared down at the ripples forming around him. That was never a good sign. The circular dents became shallower swiftly, especially as the roots of the tree before him began untangling, crackling apart with ease. It was almost as though the tree was transforming, shaking off the roots, and dismissing its leaves in violent tremors. Then after one final vibration the slender face of a serpent rushed out of the water before him, and from the wooden remains. The golden snake twirled around the Keeper of the Eyes of Katsumoto, its tongue tickling venom in his direction.

Its pupil-less eyes targeted Sasuke.

Sasuke glared back, absentmindedly touching his neck wound with the tips of his fingers. This vile animal was the sole reason he was on the brink of death, hot venom searing his organs. He had been far too 'haughty' when confronting the Keeper at first, so it decided to send its little pet out to teach him a valuable lesson in patience.

He did not learn much.

"I'm waiting." Sasuke announced, gritting his teeth, mind-blowing pain crawling up his neck.

The Keeper threw the troublesome orb with the ninety-nine souls into the snake's mouth.

_The Gateway to Hell…_

The faint screams faded off to nothingness.

"You must give me," the Keeper began, turning once more towards Sasuke. "One. Pure. Soul."

_What a fucked up Wonderland._

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She pushed the door open, leaving a bloody handprint on the glass.

She stumbled into the hospital hallway, wobbling sideways, naked feet grazing the white tile. Her knees crumbled beneath her and she fell to the floor in a sudden heap, hair cascading down over her face as she panted heavily.

Bringing a trembling hand towards her face, she examined the smothering blood.

Hinata extended her neck back, closed her eyes, and released a bloodcurdling scream that echoed off into the endless corridors of the first floor.

The clock hit twelve o' four.

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"_What is mankind's strongest passion?"_

"…_vengeance…"_

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-x-

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(\__/)  
(='.'=)

**Standard Disclaimer** (will apply for remainder of the story): Naruto rightfully belongs to Mashashi Kishimoto and Alice in Wonderland (& Through the Looking-Glass) belongs to Lewis Carroll.

…_the devil is in the details…_


	2. The Eye of the Fish

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**Chapter Two**

**The Eye of the Fish**

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"One…two…three…"

They scurried away swiftly and barefoot.

"Five…six…seven…"

Hurry! Hurry! Make sure she doesn't peek!

"…nine…ten!" She opened her eyes. "Ready or not, here I come!"

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…_Three years later, of hide and seek…_

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-x-

.

The Book of Tokens referred to them as gregarious animals that spit out blood and drink in flames. The Tarot Testaments preferred 'anathemas', ghosts of lingering death, coherent to an unknown tongue damned to live amongst the living till the end of eternity. Ancient meditation scriptures, however, gave these beings a whiff of purpose. 'They are the undead,' as quoted, 'restless souls ripped from their bodies prior to their hearts last beat. They were stolen, not lost, and shall remain so until said sneaky thief returns them.'

If you skim through the pages of any supernatural investigation the profile is usually predictable. The case is swept by the analysis of shifting furniture, flickering light bulbs, and indiscernible whispering. By the hundredth page of observation realization quickly dawns on the investigators. Perhaps the light bulbs just need replacing. Could the barely audible whimpering be spreading vermin? Would a ghost truly be concerned about unappealing decoration? Of course, a classic 'Inconclusive' is pasted on the cover of these folders, which are filed onto the top of a dusty shelf, twenty feet above the ground, in a warehouse of cold cases.

There was no spotting of white-sheet covered bodies, or hovering flashlight gleams. Besides, in the wide study of Cynicism one-o-one it is known that only damp attics or dim basements hold restless spirits. They cling to the moldy bricks, carving their names into the crumbling plaster.

Surely the desolate street isn't the place for a bewildered phantom. Let alone hundreds…

They were milk-white pale, even under the flushing yellow of the morning streetlamps. Completely nude, visibly trembling, and clustered together in an aimless congregation, shoulder to shoulder, but no one spoke or even acknowledged the other's presence. All drenched in blood from head to toe, and rooted into borrowed wings that did not flap, but merely slanted downwards. They were a black bony structure, webbed with not feathers, but liquefied tar. Here were the gaunt adaptations of our holy spirits, lifeless yet breathing, soulless but bearing a barely beating yet still pumping heart. Overgrown children rejecting misplacement into the stage of the damned inner world, clutching on to old superstition to deny that the developing situation was not so.

There had been no white light. No smoldering flames. Certainly even Limbo held a more conclusive explanation. What had caused the untimely demise? A gunshot wound? Truly impossibly, no pain could be recalled. An earthquake? But the ground had never trembled. A struck of lightening! Oh, but the sky had been perfectly clear…

Their ripped lips gapped apart, the melted bottom and top lips had fuse, causing hot drops to bond their mouths closed. Coagulated red streams of blood ran down their colorless bodies, the source imperceptible. The veins of their pupils were eerily lilac under heavily hefted eyelashes covered in dusted concrete. Their hands extended towards the desert-clear air, reaching through the hovering dense fog of destruction and onward to the stray bolt of sunlight seeping through the stained clouds of death above.

Blood red, smell it?

Plausibly a bomb, a sudden impact with the consuming power of a light switch. Tilted down, all light ceases, all life vanishes…

A spider web of dried blood laced around her fingers, wrapping her hand into a dainty gift of rigid coldness. She played with her fingers, outstretching them, fingertips psychologically seizing the hot blue sunrise across the horizon as a flock of dreary crows preyed above in an endless circle. But no matter how far she stood on her tippy-toes she was not tall enough to reach the sun.

She created the only shadow on the street.

She owned humane eyes, untrained entities unable to see the hands of sorrow surrounding her, grasping the empty air for a breakthrough as well. Her pupils could not distinguish the gashed facades of quiet war victims, scattered around like blind children, invisible to the world. She could not hear the dripping of their tears drilling holes into the ground, holes that regenerated as soon as they formed; could not smell their burned flesh, and could not perceive that she was in the center of their perfect soldier lines.

For the dead had been forgotten. Just like the feeble little girl of six, whose pitter-patter feet brushed against the dusty and now, unpaved road. The naked toes tainting a dark charcoal…

She cruised the nameless streets, passing through the motionless smoggy bodies embedded to the pavement like implanted radishes. Thick gusts of smoke birthed from the material remains of the city: piles of dark wood from porches that had collapsed over doorways, hill-like stone cemeteries of crushed apartment complexes, all clustered in-between barely standing edifices. Edifices with clothing still hanging from the balcony railings, holding windows with taped signs exclaiming for help…for salvation…

But no prayers were answered, there were no survivors.

Her feet walked upon chattered glass, crushing the small pieces into bits of grit. The cuts on her heels did not burn; they were measly ant bites to the awe-struck child, whom continued onward, looking up at her destroyed hometown. Surely she was dreaming, for mere minutes ago she had been swinging under the midday heat in the deserted prairie playground, just on the outskirts of the forest. She had not been delirious to this oblivion; she must be parched and deluded. Yes that was the reason, her mother would never leave without her, and neither would her father…

They couldn't just disappear with her little sister without as much as a goodbye.

There were no eerie sobs in the distance, only deathly silence. The moaning of the perished was now gone, along with their bodies. It had been engulfed by the feisty embers, and now only the dead continued to cry in silence, most unlike the young child.

For she was only dreaming.

"…just dreaming…" she whispered, biting her lower lip anxiously.

However, her feet would not resign to this nightmare for they kept on while her eyes eagerly drank in the salty desperation of loneliness. She passed breezily by mutilated bodies shaped and cut like raw cattle, not paying particular attention to the gruesome details. Only spiritless eyes stared back from dangling nooses, or mounds of rubble. Others had no eyes to stare at her at all, even in death.

And then she finally arrived home, the cozy one story cottage. Sanctuary to her snug bedroom and her many stuffed animals and Mr. Fred (her imaginary friend), whom was still locked in the closet because of their fight last night. Oh why did she have to lock him in so? Her feet instantly recognized the softness of the dew curling through her toes, but she did not wish to stop at the misshapen house slashed apart.

That could not be her house. For her house had a wide porch and a tree with a swing in the front and a small rose garden next to the garage.

So she did not halt, but she did quicken her pace slightly, as she continued onwards towards the scarlet wooden bridge ahead. It was on the back pier of the old Memory Orphanage, if she skipped past perhaps she could find her friends hidden in the tree house. They could pinch her awake together.

But the humming behind her grew louder just then, to the point that she couldn't ignore it. Her follower wished for her to notice that she was being pursued, but talking to strangers was a rule she would not break. Even in dreams. The soft footsteps were crackling on the debris in accordance to hers, and she could see a hunting shadow from the corner of her starry, black eye.

"Sparkling Angel, where are you flying off to?"

Her feet stopped abruptly, on their own accord; her heart began to beat wildly like a ceremonial drum. The question phrased in such delicate terms, and sweet tone, came from her follower's mouth. It would be rude to not answer, wouldn't it? She glanced back, an unsafe chance of salt-pillar proportions, and her eyes widened in horror immediately.

Only a mere second passed before her feet were gliding roughly against the dirt ground and she sped as far away as she could.

Such a hopeless sprint.

Another arrived on the tip of a tree's spine nearby; while to her horror a third appeared out of thin air on the steal supporter above the red bridge. It crawled on all fours, the stringent movements of a machine, a motorized panther surveying from above. Its lanky body was wrapped in black latex, its scintillating skin, while bone-clawed digitals of three-inch depth simplified its pacing back and forth.

How had they escaped from under her bed? Her mother said they could never leave from there!

She could only hear her struggling shallow breathing by the time her feet finally reached the wooden bridge, so it became impossible to attend to her follower's strides. She fell against the railing, head plunging forward as she looked down at the rushing ocean water of sub-zero fragility. She held on to the ledge for support, her body strained with exhaustion and fear.

In her mind the only repeating image was of that monster's mouth — as it curved upwards into a sadistic smirk. An unspoken promise to tear her body to shreds. Instinctively, she knew more were coming, like a stack of dominos with pattern precision, or a collection of teasing cats intrigued by the panicking mouse in the center of their group.

Hauling up with all of her left strength she stumbled to the top of the thin banister, holding on to nothing else. The air seemed to grow stronger, as it always did in her dreams, as though to keep her balance on the tips of her toes whilst she stood.

"Is Angel going to leave her children?"

The sweet voice asked again.

She felt a tear slide down her cheek, as the wind whipped her hair upwards in a sudden rush. Behind her they were all jumping down to the bridge, about a dozen or some now, encircling her form into a deadly trap, leaving no corner of escape.

She closed her eyes, trying to overcome her fear of heights, but the complete opposite was posed. For that same mask-like, ear-to-ear smile flashed in her mind, the skeletal face of a thirsty murderer with needle-sharp teeth ready to pierce her flesh, to leave her body blood-dry.

She laughed scornfully, leaning forward.

It's okay, because it was only a dream.

The wind rushed through her locks, giving her a true sense of peace. Any minute now she'd wake up warm in her bed, snuggled beneath the covers and head on her pillow. Her mother would be beside her, shaking her shoulder, asking what was wrong.

She hit the ocean surface, cold spikes bringing dark relief and a blinding pain stabbing her heart.

From above, they all watched her sink down into the azure water. One in specific jumped onto the banister like the stealthy beast it was, and tilted its head in intrigued while watching bloody ribbons of blood whirling around the little girl sinking to the bottom of the ocean.

Ah, shark season…

A smirk graced all of their thin lips.

The same symbolical Eye painted on their foreheads shining.

This was her sweet vendetta.

For no more ghosts appeared on the broken road that day.

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-x-

.

The thorn beast was friends with the redbud, maple, and ginkgo, yet the cherry blossoms bloomed with a gloomy tint among the spiked branches, the bark of the tree a chocolate brown.

Lush trees, scoop-shaped and brilliantly emerald, were impregnated with hydrogenous flowers damped with dirty rainfall from the early morning shower. Nevertheless a mere glance at the fragile leaves was a breath of fresh air. The vivid forest, akin to a 'paradise peninsula' (or so incessant travelers agreed), was founded on golden sand, velvet soft at the slightest touch.

It reached for the sky. The roof's edges curved upwards in native style, each level complex thinner than the previous, completing twelve floors in total, with wide stone steps leading to the tall oak doors with couture designs in black ink. A castle flooded with light under the calm paleness of grey sundown — clothed from the eastern seashore winds by the mountain compilation half-hidden inside the clouds and sky-scraping trees on said plane. It was built on high ground, sacred by antiquate incantations, on the smallest mountain top overlooking the roofs of Leaf Villager's peaceful homes, crowned with ancient sculptures through the gardens facing golden terraces.

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-x-

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Inside the third story conference chamber delirium hung thickly in the air.

The tealeaves floated on the pennyroyal tea in the broad ceramic cup, whilst feline-like ores in deep contemplation reflected on the cherry juice — undiscernibly, one an identical glass replica of the other eye. His heavy colorful robes with mystical ambiance designs slumped his shoulders, an awkwardly outlined fedora obscured the disfigured half of his aging face, and the legendary pipe hung on the side of his thin lips.

The Hokage had always been quite resilient to change, no matter how subtle. For years the castle's conservation personnel had pleaded for redecoration or even rebuilding of questionable pillars, but the vintage had been left alone. 'If the ceiling caves in,' he'd said, 'then you should feel honored that you were crushed by our ancestor's rigorous work.'

No one had dared to disagree.

The current situation held the appearance of a casual village meeting, routinely held on sluggish Wednesdays during the evening hours. Scrolls were brought up the rickety stairs, piled onto the table and then discussed heavily by the present members. The controversial topics ranged from the shortage of water supply to what suitable color the banners should be for the upcoming winter festival.

Usually his telling expression read _'I just had to follow my lifelong dream to become Hokage, didn't I?'_ while he absentmindedly signed decree after decree. Or added a much needed 'Possibly' or 'Indeed' to an ongoing conversation. It was tedious labor but someone must be chained to the ramifications of a terrible decision.

Today, however, the heavy wrinkles on his face merely confessed worry, a hidden suspenseful dread, and ironically, unexpected serenity. This unclear conclusion could only be reached when weighing in all the factors presented in the past hour or so of discussion, when the chilling revelations turned downright astonishing.

Sandaime sat dinning at the head of the low wooden table, legs crossed over the azure tatami mat.

A gingerly aroma drowned the room, as it wafted up from the other six glass bowls on the table, belonging to the surrounding somber gentlemen deep in thought. One held his distraught face in his palms while sighing gently; another drummed his fingernails impatiently against the table, while the one opposite of the Hokage had resorted to staring out the sole wide window at the uneventful treetops.

Apart they were nothing but experience and old (ancient) heroes of warfare, but together they formed the Council of Foreign Relations. Commonly, and secretly, referred to as the Council of Fucking Eradications, by the Hokage. Said council had formed after much dispute and political turmoil better left unstated.

Thus, the room lay empty except for the mahogany coffee table, the six men whose heads were easily worth seven digits in excess, the Hokage (whom silently sipped from his cup once more), and Iruka Umino, sitting beside him with a large scroll and inked quill in hand while jotting down key points of debate, now high ranked advisor.

Outside the room lay a high-ceilinged hallway, where the distinct stench of sweat and irritation was not concealed by cold tea. Instead there were several dozens of chatting ninjas, each of different ranks and colored suits of combat, mingling between the lined crowds while inspecting the premises. Some were pacing in front of the white sliding doors, others leaned against the walls with solemn glares, hiding trembling bloody hands behind their backs.

There was no true uneasiness between them, even after the order of dispatching more bodyguards to guard the conference chamber was received. An enemy would have to be utterly insane to think of attacking them where lay their most skilled numbers. It was practically suicide…

Back within the chamber, the sweeping speechlessness endured with what seemed like no possible end in sight. The only lively personality being the Hokage, who continued to calmly enjoy his tea, while secretly counting down the ticking bomb across from him.

_Five ninjas went to the river, four carried buckets back, three made it to town, two drank from the water, one…_

"ARE WE NOTHING BUT COWARDS!" a furious voice screamed, as a powerful fist came down onto the table, sending all the tea bowls momentarily in midair.

_One went to anger management classes…_

Predictably, Hayo Hikaru had been the cause of the sudden outburst. After all, being the Head of the Department of Defense had one sole perk, the ability to share your uncontainable rage without fault. He slammed his palms flat against the table, startling the other five members whom jumped in surprise; whereas the Hokage raised an eyebrow.

"Must we continue receiving this abuse without any form of retaliation?" Hikaru continued piercingly, rising from the mat. "While our men die in the streets of our homeland? Must the young mothers watch their children die in their arms?" he accused.

It irritated Sandaime greatly when these men thought that if they stood up from the table the point they were making was perfectly valid and full of bursting potential. So far only the obvious had been reinstated, to think, men like this received statues over speeches rephrasing nothing but the obvious truth.

The Hokage brought a hand to his lips in tempted thought, or perhaps feigning consideration. But Hikaru seemed to sense his indifference towards the discussed plan of action. His scream-colored skin grew vivid scarlet like a ripe tomato. The Hokage absentmindedly wondered if he suffered from high blood pressure.

"Hayo," the councilman beside him stood, placing a reassuring hand on his shoulder. "You mustn't speak to the Hokage so…"

"You should be doing the same Kyoto!" Hikaru barked, his voice looming over the pleading. "He's done absolutely nothing for our people during these aggressions. Our village is being constantly terrorized by these guerilla attacks without justifiable reason and he hasn't lifted a single finger!"

_You should be a medical ninja,_ the Hokage blinked repeatedly while swirling his tea with a silver spoon. _No mom! I want to be Hokage!_

Childhood dreams always resulted in such lovely repercussions.

He only slightly picked up on Hikaru's ongoing dialogue, "…We must stop this." He had just exclaimed. "Our underground shelters cannot hold any more families, our morgues any more victims…"

"But the village has been able to recover," a brave soul interrupted.

"Life is gradually returning to normal." Kyoto encouraged.

Hikaru growled as he gritted his teeth, everyone guessed this was a sign that he was regaining control. "We've lost over two hundred of our recruited ninja students. Kids! Teenagers whom were violently slaughtered while out on training missions. Do you realize that our ninja schools and programs are no longer safe? When will these invaders return? Tomorrow? In an hour? Right now?" he was bellowing again. "We must attack back!"

The Hokage glanced down at Hikaru's tea bowl. Perhaps he should have slipped in a Valium…

"He's right!" A third mat became unoccupied. "This village is now founded on mere fear and death. Where is the spirit of our forces?"

Mania is truly quite contagious.

The once serene chamber was no longer still, for all the members rose in unison while throwing hot accusations around and following each possible resolution with a batch of awkward questions. All directed towards one individual, whom was now adding some extra sugar to his tea before bringing it to his lips.

The Hokage savored the liquid on his tongue, satisfied with the sweetening. He only blinked in turn while stroking his white beard; the surrounding voices became more obnoxious by the second. "Tell me…" he began.

Their exclamations ended immediately, even in mid sentence, when their passive luminary finally spoke.

"…How do you win in a game of Hide and Seek?" The Hokage posed simply. "How do you exact retribution on an opponent you're never seen?"

Boiling blood was rushing through their cheeks still, their chests rising and lowering in retrospect.

"We've never actually seen our attackers, as all you cleverly forgot to point out." The Hokage affirmed with civism. "We have only been able to inspect the remains of battle, a battle that seems parallel to a natural disaster more than physical combat. For they have been truly cunning, leaving no living soul behind to tell us their identity, their methods of combat. Burning the bodies to torture us with possibilities of slaying, or even taking the dead with them. But since you all seem so passionate about your platform plan of action, could you please share the secrets of annihilating an invisible foe able to wipe out an entire city block in a mere minute?"

Iruka tried to hide the smug smirk that quivered onto his lips.

"The Dawn Village," Hikaru provided quickly, apparently he'd been anticipating such a subject. "They must be responsible for these barbaric rebels. All for the petty reason of sabotaging our fall season! They've always been quite envious even in our unified ninja competitions. Why else wouldn't they answer our request for a town congressional meeting," He was looking down at the other councilmen whom nodded in agreement. "Instead of sending us back our messenger's _head?_"

"You wish to declare war against a village that might be entirely guiltless because you believe they are jealous of our crops?" the Hokage questioned rhetorically, in a tone that clearly confessed that this was beyond a pathetic excuse. He chanced a side-glance towards Iruka, whom was busily jotting down their conversation. The truth would have to be revealed sooner or later…

"Our innocents are suffering, why shouldn't theirs?" came Kyoto's cold remark.

"Le the blood taint their streets!"

"An eye for an eye!" another passionately cried.

_Arrogant bastards_, the Hokage thought, massaging his temple roughly.

"The Dawn Village is dead." He spat, almost crudely.

Kyoto sank back down onto his mat just about immediately, soon followed by the others. Their hands lay beside them lifelessly while their lips parted in shock, their brows furrowed in uncertainty, and their eyes widened with spreading panic. It would have been an almost comical soap opera scene if the topic weren't so grave…

Iruka ceased writing down the statements being said in the conference, diligently following the Hokage's previous instructions at noon. Some situations couldn't be put in the records, evidence was a rather risky forte.

"After all these assaults in the past three months," the Hokage explained slowly while the meeting's members listened intently. "I visited the Dawn Village myself and…"

The accompanying flashbacks to this anecdote were everything but pleasant. It had been nothing but a village of rubble, with cracked edifices, ravaged streets, and mutilated bodies on display burned to a crisp. There had been scattered suitcases still full of personal possessions, a consuming eerie silence the only companion of death, and an old brick building named Memory Orphanage, standing in the obscure backdrops of this fairly oblique and twisted fairytale.

"I found all of its inhabitants dead." He announced. "It seemed as though the city had been raped of reason, injected with some sort of frenzying drug. I immediately feared the worse and decided to visit the eastern and western neighboring villages as well. But I found them in the exact same condition. Both Atwood and Earth Haven are eradicated to nothingness."

They were petrified and dumbstruck; he could easily read their expressions, as hard lumps of disbelief were swallowed with difficulty. The labyrinth had only grown longer, and far wider. Who the hell was watering the spreading pasture? What villages hadn't been destroyed by this seemingly invincible enemy?

"What can we possibly do?" Kyoto asked aloud, more to himself than anyone else in the room.

The Hokage grabbed his tea bowl off the table, instinct tickling his ears with its whispers.

"So then who the hell is attacking us?" Maito worriedly added, from five seats down the table. "Who has the power to destroy three villages in the time span of three months, perhaps even less? Without as little as a single survivor escaping and warning its neighboring community."

The Hokage's crystal eye whizzed, shifting past the council silhouettes to the locked golden doors in heavy oak. A deep frown twisted his features, which he quickly replaced with a disinterested thinness to his lips.

Vital information could be provided from the most unexpected sources.

How irking.

The strapping entrance doors were suddenly thrown off their hinges, flying above the heads of the seated men and slamming deafeningly against the opposite walls. Before much retaliation could be performed the chamber began to quake violently as shock waves hung heavy in the air, arousing the crystal lanterns on the ceiling illuminating the full-fledged evening to explode open and sprinkle powdery fire down onto the bodies below.

The devastating disturbance brought wild cracks to the walls, created abrupt ruptures in the ceiling — like artificially enhanced roots the fractures twisted around the pillars and crushed them to tiny bite sized pieces of marble and wood.

The councilmen rose panic-stricken, adrenaline pumping avidly as the room's structures began to crumble, caving in rapidly. Many held on to the shifting table, trying to cling to some sort of support to fight the stressful movements. Others quickly lost their grip and reasoned to crouch underneath it to miss the jagged falling debris from above.

An animalistic screech accompanied the series of severe vibrations.

Where two tectonic plates arguing decisively?

Another brutal temblor sent Kyoto forward against the table, expensive robes and all, impacting his stomach roughly on the edge. He squirmed to the floor in pain while the others around him started to yell, the usual incoherent queries.

Then, just as sudden as they arrived, the tremors ceased altogether.

The following scene was impregnated with heavy panting and disorientation, as some of the councilmen removed small blocks of wreckage off themselves. Hikaru's bald head popped out from under the intricate table experimentally, while he dusted off some plaster off his forehead with a trembling hand. The earthquake seemed to be over, there was no more rumbling, just coughing amidst the thin fog inside the chamber.

Hikaru rose from the floor slowly, leaning his body against the table for sustainment. "W-w-what on earth?" he stuttered in confusion, spitting out some blood onto the floorboards.

However, no one replied since the other room's occupants were engaged in composing their appearances, checking their arms for any health-deteriorating wound. Hikaru looked up and followed a wide hole in the ceiling. He had the displeasing intuition that the pesky Hokage would argue any type of rebuilding. Well he'd been right; the ancestors had certainly graced them with their legacy — almost crushing their skulls in the process.

It was when he pursued the tear to the contrasting wall that his nervous glance fell upon Iruka, whom was no longer cross-legged on the floor like an obedient errand-boy. Instead he was in a slanted fighting stance while bellowing daggers to claw his hands, spread out on top of the table and looking rather menacing.

Beside him was the Hokage neatly sitting on his mat, not an inch out of place, whom seemed pleased that his tea bowl hadn't spilled a single drop during the previous disruption. He was sipping from the bowl, while utterly ignoring the disastrous environment around him, the two large chunks of marble lying on either side of him that could have easily crushed his bones to a mound of pebbles not distressing him in the least.

Hikaru's pupils followed Iruka's glare, trying to spot his target.

The dark thick smog had begun to clear from the exposed hallway, where the destroyed entrance lay and there many bodyguards resided. Kyoto began walking backwards, taking in shallow breaths, until he stumbled onto a piece of the caved-in ceiling and fell back to the marble floor painfully.

The hallway was deathly silent.

Within every ninja, lieutenant, general, and sensei lay spread out on the ground in cold blood. Some pieces here, some pieces there…

The few guards still alive were on their backs gargling and drowning with their own blood, or crawling away towards the exit while missing some sort of extremity. The heart-chattering screaming stung the councilmen's ears as they witnessed their most powerful forces mutilated like rabid animals, leaving them perfectly exposed to an oncoming attack.

One in specific, rocked back and forth against his opened stomach.

Maito released a contorted whimper and gripped his robe over his heart, feeling a sharp pain running up his arm.

From the thinning smoke came the rhythmic ticking of pointed, wooden heels hitting the glassy floor. Soon enough, pale legs, attached to a slender body wrapped in a short one-piece and blue fighter's outfit, led a freckled bohemian beauty into the chamber. Her silky black hair cascaded down her lower back to the bottom of her overall outfit, a huffy short with V-line cut at the collar. She was smiling pleasantly, while tilting her head slightly and placing a bloody sword over her right shoulder.

"Pica-boo!" she playfully called.

Their revulsion quickly escalated to pure bewilderment. All of their faces clearly screamed the 'how's and 'what-the-hell's no one dared to say aloud. However, when the Hokage finally trained his pupils on the approaching young girl with the cat-like grin, the only change was the crossing of his fingers before his face.

"How nice of you to drop in," the Hokage announced. "Orochimaru."

The girl gave a high-pitched giggle before licking the blood off her blade sensually.

The council's reactions were absolutely priceless. Hikaru grew as stiff as a board, Kyoto's knees began to visibly shake, and Maito seemed to be contemplating hiding under the table once more. The rest merely quivered in numb comprehension, overwhelmed with the rancid truth of being in the wake of such a legendary monster. But could the Hokage's words truly hold validity? Wasn't the snake demon a tall, dark-haired slithering male whom roamed the earth in search of power, avid followers, and sacred techniques? The horrifying accounts had never pointed to an almost-child. Let alone one wearing such tall heels…

"My darlings!" The young woman piped, violently rotating her neck in several directions, as though possessed, or as if trying to adjust her head to the rest of a foreign body — which in this case was more than probable. "I kindly grace you with my presence." She declared, wiggling her fingers in greeting.

She was continuing forward breezily, and with each step closer she took the further down Maito sank to the floor. There was hot sweat on his feverish forehead, especially when in one swift movement Orochimaru jumped onto the wooden table, swinging her sword in a circular motion like a careless child.

The Hokage gently raised his palm, instructing Iruka that charging was not the right choice. He immediately complied and leaped down from the table, displeasing the advancing girl somewhat. Apparently she'd been hoping for some sort of retaliation. She loved how her sword look tainted vibrant red.

"This is most unlike you. Entering a village under unspoken war," the Hokage kept his voice and gaze neutral; years of practiced hypocrisy could truly come into needed practice. "Risking your own neck, for what? The glory of conquering the defeated?"

Orochimaru faked a pout. "Oh dear, is that how you treat old friends?"

Maito closed his eyes weakly, head throbbing. He fumbled on the table for his barely full tea bowl.

"For I came with the best intentions at heart and to fully assist." Orochimaru assured, suddenly stabbing down her sword towards Maito's hand below her. He screamed, eyes forgetting to blink, as a blunt sound echoed in the room.

His stubby hand was a mere inch from the apple Orochimaru's sword had incrusted at the core.

Grinning innocently, Orochimaru brought the tip of the sword to the front of her mouth before taking a big bite from the apple.

In the meantime, the Hokage's eyes inspected the bloody handprints framing the inner walls of the hallway. Charity work was most certainly not in Orochimaru's rather hectic social agenda, but neither was unprofitable conversation. It amazed him the kinds of creatures that would resurface when you jingle a little golden bell in the darkness. All eager to steal it…

"Somehow, I find that terribly hard to believe." The Hokage finally responded, sarcasm lipped his words.

Orochimaru licked his lush lips with a tongue three times too long for a human being.

"…Three years of absolute absence and suddenly you return, with a new heart," the Hokage examined his appearance, "and a new body?"

"You're not listening." She warned, tone drizzled with adoration, "I could never bear to watch the Leaf Village burn to ashes under bitter war against such a trivial enemy." Her tone held contained excitement, not grief. "How many have you lost so far? Hundreds? You know I can smell the blood hundreds of miles away, past rivers, even mountains…"

"Get to the point." The Hokage spat with an edge.

Hypocrisy could only stretch so far.

"Ouch," she laughed angelically. "You know it's strange, I never thought _you'd_ live to see the day when we would both have the same rivals." She looked down at the anxious councilmen and was gifted with utterly perplexed looks. "Oh that's right! You're still completely unaware as to who is attacking you. I'm not truly surprised, your little village is too far off the coast to see the ships filing in each sunrise."

The Hokage narrowed his eyes, his expertise when dealing with this leviathan had taught him to question certain aspects whenever in his presence. One being his infamous 'amnesia' to recall vital details. The other aroused a far more serious question: Whose body was that?

Orochimaru took another large bite of the apple. "My vague recollections are always catering me with scenes of vast sails belonging to gold-imprinted ships. That soft smell of salty ocean breeze just congesting my nose," She whined, looking down as though looking for reassurance of this irritating fact. She received petrified blank stares. With a roll of her eyes she continued, "They're called the Hanako Kingdom and yes I know what you're all thinking." She chided, "_Miss Hanako of the Toilet!_ But no, this has absolutely nothing to do with that silly urban legend about the bathroom haunting ghost."

The council continued looking up at her, their jaws unhinged.

The Hokage calmly slapped a hand to his temple. The council was eating up Orochimaru's story like a batch of preschoolers.

"Thus, I prefer the Hans Kingdom. So as I was saying, they've been under construction for numerous decades and finally the lucky bastards found some greedy Western foreigners to finance their monstrosity of a vision. And now you stand in their way, in the path within the Ishio Mountains, a trail needed to facilitate trade. Personally, I think it's rather fascinating that your people are dying for plastic fabricated sandals and taboo souvenirs."

_And the Academy Award goes to…_

While twirling a lock of hair in her index finger, Orochimaru stood on her tippy-toes and examined her reflection on the burnished table. "…And while destroying all possible enemies in the process with their hidden secret weapons. It's like killing two birds with one stone, or in this case, deadly S-Class Criminal Army."

The Hokage's posture remained firm while he dissected the onslaught of revelations, trying to separate the useful from the mere cunningly disguised. "So we're no longer facing a small village but an expanding kingdom." He furrowed his brows. "And you consider them your foes. I failed to catch the reason why in your telling story."

Orochimaru instantly stopped the nauseating twirling she had been engaging in, causing long bangs of silky hair to cover her eyes. "_That_ my aging fossil is none of your concern. But we both share the same desire ultimately, the sole destruction of the Hans Kingdom. So what do you say?"

She extended her hand towards him, even though he stood about six feet away. _"Friends?"_ the word was an abomination coming from her lips.

The Hokage straightened up, for the first time at eye-level with his longtime nemesis. "Trust is a mere word to you, that can be uttered to gain whatever whim tickles your need on said day. But to others, mainly us, it means something you've never truly owned, it's a sentiment entitled loyalty. It holds a definition you will never understand yet demand from others. Did you honestly suppose that I would be persuaded in some way of this 'compound' understanding you seek with your little speech — that you will listen to our orders and follow our ideals of battle?"

"You can't possibly be considering this!" Hikaru yelled without considering the consequences, or truly listening to his cynical words.

Orochimaru snickered. "Of course not, you wouldn't rely on me as far as you could throw me. However, what you fail to realize is that I offered my services, not _my_ hands."

In the mere blink of an eye the air grew thinner and colder, as three loathsome forms suddenly appeared behind Orochimaru, awaiting instructions eagerly. They were easily recognizable, for these faces had been parading death and twirling daggers since the discovery of baby steps.

Suigetsu Hozuki's shark-like teeth and the Zabuza sword draped over his back were trademarks, impossible to overlook, along with his neck length silver hair and reputation for beheading his victims. The bundle of unkempt crimson hair beside him was Karin, the one and only Ms. Sadist, round glasses highlighting her look of utter indifference. Next to her slender body stood Jugo, an impatient gleam in his eyes and curiosity dancing on his features. His spiky orange locks sharper than ever — one could only hope that his enzymes were under control.

"Ah of course, you're offering us the bloody hands of your apprentices." The Hokage said with displeasure. "Your psychotic, highly unstable, hormonally-challenged teenage followers. Real help…"

The lethal three instantly frowned, annoyed by his reference.

Orochimaru placed her arms behind her head with amusement. "Name your price."

The Hokage closed his eyes. "Sasuke…"

There was a hollow silence.

Only the chiming of the wall clock could be heard as it obnoxiously continued whispering, _'Tick, tock! Tick, tock!'_

Orochimaru's arms slipped down to her sides, features blackening to contained aggravation. "You three are dismissed." She spat, the female voice now holding the echo of his true identifiable snake-like tone, as she continued inspecting the Hokage's passive appearance.

Suigetsu, Karin, and Jugo were gone in another routine blink.

"Heh, Sasuke Uchiha?" Orochimaru said slowly, tasting each letter on her tongue. "Are you positive that you understand what it is that you're asking of me?"

The Hokage opened his eyes and glared back at her.

The utterance of such a deplorable name had nearly gained the same effect as the presumed earthquake mere minutes ago. The councilmen opened their mouths to protest such a heinous transaction but their voices failed them. They could never possibly agree on specific terms of arrangement. Orochimaru would never accept simply lending his protégé without question. Surely never would the Uchiha that had abandoned the village three years ago to embark on a darkened path return to protect the very village he abhorred with all his being.

The village he could most likely crush with the palm of his hand.

There was another lengthy pause filled with staring.

"Fine," Orochimaru agreed breezily, the corners of her mouth twitching upwards. "I shall speak with him of this pact." With that she bowed down mockingly before the Hokage. "His loyalties lie with me, thus, I promise no safe arrangement for your petty village. But I must confess this is quite quaint. You trust _him?_"

The Hokage turn his back to Orochimaru and began heading towards the second pair of doors across the wide room, these of sliding paper, which led to yet another rickety staircase. "I trust his abilities." He cleared gravely, a mischievous twinkle in his eyes.

As the Hokage walked down the first three ancient steps Orochimaru made her swift exit. She jumped off the table rather happily and walked back into the destroyed hallway, through the bloody piles of dead bodies. She kicked some out of the way whenever possible before completely disappearing out of view out of a third-story window.

Maito soon stumbled to a corner and began purging.

"That betraying Uchiha! ARE YOU INSANE?" Hikaru barked wildly, running towards the doorframe so his voice would reach the Hokage with the desired volume.

"He is the answer." The Hokage said, not giving Hikaru the satisfaction of turning around and continuing the argument.

"Our best men are dead." Kyoto murmured fearfully, the severity of the situation dawning.

"We have nothing!" Hikaru added bitterly.

The Hokage ceased walking, a jabbing friction descending his shoulders. If truth be told, they had absolutely everything. All they needed to do was jingle the bell a little bit longer, and watch the rest of the monsters crawl out of the rabbit holes, or rat nests. His chest burned with conflicting emotions, in one corner stood defeat but the rightful path of battle. In the other stood glory, but a bloody mess of planning and chess pieces.

"We will have a tournament." He concluded, sending righteousness to hell.

Of course, he knew where this would lead…

"We will choose the best ninjas in our village and create an elite army to fight the Hans Kingdom's army."

There was no turning back once the cards were in play…

"And we will win." He assured.

"A tournament?" Hikaru disputed. "Preposterous! At a time like this?"

"There is no better time." The Hokage continued striding down the steps. "Thirteen contestants will be chosen to lead battle against our powerful enemy. As you've already noticed, four positions will be filled by Orochimaru's apprentices, that would leave nine spots open. So start promoting gentlemen, we begin our hasty eliminations tomorrow."

Hikaru broke out into another offensive speech but the Hokage had already reached the first story, downing his voice to a little annoying squeak of impractical words. He slid the doors open and walked out into the shivering night. Keeping a steady pace he became consumed with the beauty of the gardens of the castle. But the bursting rosebuds and gliding pine trees were immediately forgotten when he reached the golden temple in front of the salt-water lake.

Stream rocks lay around the four pillars which elevated a stone roof, under which were several black crystal gravestones with Japanese characters engraved onto them. It was his favorite shrine, small and intimate.

He slowly sat down with his legs tucked under and joined his palms together in prayer before his face. Around him a pink mist hovered, produced by the many lit candles around the gravestones. Catfish leaped from the greenish lake of drifting petals, creating a gentle rhythmic song of splashing water.

He lay there in quiet meditation for about an hour or so, after which he whispered a faint, "Forgive me." Although he knew his predecessors were listening, and were most unpleased.

Iruka hesitantly walked towards him, a blank scroll and inked quill in hand. Somehow he was still following previous instructions…

The Hokage took both objects calmly and began swiftly writing; only looking up to request that Iruka assemble the best three messengers in the entire village. Iruka excused himself and by the time the three men arrived, the Hokage had already rolled up the scroll and tied a yellow ribbon to conceal its contents.

He walked towards the men, stopping in front of the highest ranked, who introduced himself.

"Shiro Yato, at your services," he bowed respectfully.

The Hokage took his hands in his own, surprising the messenger greatly, and then passed him the stroll. But he did not let go and instead looked deeply into his eyes to show the importance of the delivery. "You must go to the Utada Village in the far Northern Coast. It will take you at least a week to find said place. It is a hidden land, formed by people who despise battle. You must conceal your identities. I need you to give this scroll to a man who lives there."

Pulling him forward, the Hokage whispered the name into the messenger's ear.

He froze with cold shock.

.

-x-

.

Brass drooping dragonflies twinkled, their wings clanging against each other as they swirled in a freelance dance — when the top of the oak door brushed against them. The bell-like sound rejoiced through the small shop, perfumed with tangy spices and peppermint, bouncing off the crystal vases containing livid colorful smoke, bubbling and dissipating into wicked shapes that mixed into the salty air like a ghostly rainbow.

Shiro draped his brown traveling cloak over his right shoulder casually, lowering his eyelids while adjusting to the dim lightning and warm color-scheme.

Tall bookcases with long bookshelves expanded on the right wall, which was overstuffed with multicolored books. Some book covers looked tattered and abused; others held the fragrance of unopened fiction. On closer inspection the bystander recognized titles ranging from _Dragons: Early Folklore_ to _How to Kill Your Husband in Five Easy Organic Poison Steps_, presumably one of the top sellers.

The shelves on the left wall, however, held different and much queerer assortments: dream catchers, gemmed amulets, scented candles, tiny cauldrons, bizarre ornaments like over-jubilant cats or butterflies in jars — one even had a frozen grasshopper easily the size of a fist.

A wide and lit fireplace of white brick stood in the center with piled cardboard boxes on either side, all unlabeled. While a spiral, black-railed staircase stood behind an oak counter on the left. The counter held a crystal display case below, containing tiny vials assorted together depending on herbal potency. Across from it was a pair of opened glass doors, revealing the beautifully pale beach sand only separated from the shop by six ebony steps.

The bright aquamarine ocean was mere feet away, the crashing of the waves against the coral adorned rocks acting like a passive sermon that lured Shiro away from the newly closed front door and into _The Shop_ (as titled by the green sign nailed to the door — how refreshingly original).

A lazy black cat with patchy white spots was yawning as he stretched his back on the top of a black grand piano.

There was a bowl filled with half-eaten strawberries on its threshold.

And then Shiro's wondering eyes fell upon her, while she stood on shoeless tippy toes with her tiny face and shoulders submerged inside the large three-foot tank of ocean water.

Her small lips were pouty and a lovely crimson, whilst her cheeks held a suitable light shade of cherry. She owned curiously large, grey eyes with long spiked lashes, which made her nose seem rather miniscule for her face and added a breathtaking fragility to her features. Her neck-length chestnut hair swayed around her face in fat curls, entwining with the lively liquid. There were miniature clownfish and goldfish swimming amidst the massive fishbowl, most were circling her bravely instead of meddling in the castles below. This was most likely due to the fact that she was incessantly blowing out carbon dioxide into the water, causing bubbles to form around them.

She was utterly lost in her own childish ministration, an upside down world of entertainment. She stuck her tongue out to one of the fishes before having her ear nipped by it a few seconds later. She giggled, more bubbles emitting from the surface. Shiro couldn't help but join in with an entranced nervous chuckle.

It was then that their eyes locked, and she spotted him for the first time from under her high-pointed bottom.

She rose quickly from the water and turned to face him, her wet curls pasting to her shoulders and soaking her scarlet sundress with thin spaghetti straps. She tilted her head to the side with wonderment, giving her an allure of pure innocence as she examined his foreign wardrobe.

"Good morning," Shiro said, giving her an honest warm smile.

However, before the little girl could respond there was a collection of hollow thuds. Soon after a man carrying a fishing rode appeared from the top of the staircase. He smelled of the faintest cologne, and cheesecake.

"Sorry, I didn't hear the dragonflies." He apologized, skipping down the remainder steps with ease.

"It's no trouble at all," Shiro replied friendlily, smoothing the material of his grimy pants while dusting off some pestering beach sand.

He couldn't observe if the storeowner was pleased with his arrival since a black mask hid half of his face, making reading his expression quite impossible. He'd heard conflicting stories when he'd asked for him down in Utada, about the man who owned the shop in the Bury Forest near the ocean. Many told him that he'd tragically burned his face during a fire where he'd lost his wife, so he'd decided to outcast himself from them, only returning for supplies or special celebrations. Meanwhile, others had more fun with the legend. An old couple down at the Mercado Nuevo had assured him that the men he was looking for was an ex-ninja who'd run away from his village after refusing to fight, and they'd scarred his face as a permanent reminded of his betrayal.

But Shiro knew the real reason for his departure.

Casually strolling to the main counter he pointed to a jar with a floating Goliath frog. "That's quite amazing. I believed they were extinct, Mr. Sano." He provided, poking the glass.

Mr. Sano was twiddling a pen between his fingers as he read over an inventory report. "You just need to know where to look for them. Extraordinary animals are everywhere, if you know the right holes to crawl into." He flipped the page and looked up, just in time to catch sight of his daughter's cheeks filling with oxygen before she plunged her head underwater once more.

He tried to contain a giggle as he watched his cat raise an eyebrow at her odd antics.

"Well yes, they told me you were definitely the man to see to find rare medical taboo." Shiro patronized while pretending to examine the crystal containers with alligator eyes on display in the bottom of the counter.

Mr. Sano switched his glance to him sharply. He followed his every movement thoroughly — noticing the trivial hesitation of his fingers, the constant lack of eye contact from his most recent costumer. His voice was about an octave higher than it should, meaning this man had come from a much chillier climate.

"Yes I am." Mr. Sano agreed. "Now, where did you say you were from?"

Shiro's expression froze.

Hook. Line. And Sinker.

The smile was immediately wiped from his face. After all, why continue the tired act if it was obvious he'd figured out that something was out of key in the scene.

"Kakashi, the Hokage has asked for you." Shiro revealed with a dark undertone.

Kakashi simply leaned against the counter and pointed a lazy finger towards the door. "Get out."

Shiro's features hardened. "Konoha is plagued by upcoming war. It has already been viciously attacked in several occasions. He assured me that it is imperative that you receive this message and I am not to leave until I receive an answer."

"I don't believe you heard me the first time," Kakashi responded calmly. "I told you to get out."

Shiro could not believe that he was so unaffected by his statements. The Hokage had been right in predicting his behavior. This man was most certainly a stone.

"How old is you daughter, Kakashi? Four?" Shiro glanced at the small child over his shoulder, just as she reached downward and grasped a baby goldfish. Raising her head out of the water she examined the struggling fish in her hand before it jumped out of her grasp and she released a small yelp, placing the cut finger in her mouth sulkily.

"I once had a little girl just like her," Shiro confessed with a low voice, his eyes clouding with grief. "Please, at least read his request."

He slipped the scroll under the pile of parchments before turning to leave, stretching into his cloak in the process.

Kakashi waited until his shop door closed and the jingle fainted off to nothing, before glaring down at the tainted stack. His daughter sat cross-legged on the floor now, and had placed her wide forehead against the sparkling aquarium. She glared at the fish with as much intensity, hugging her wounded finger to her chest.

It was amazing how all of these years in peaceful hiding could be broken in a matter of minutes.

He unraveled the scroll with a heavy sigh, and started reading the Old Mans scribbled writing. With each gaunt character the anticipated chill on his spine ripped his flesh a little bit deeper. To the point where he could feel the hot blood running down his back.

Shiro released a sigh of his own as he walked away from the small cottage in the density of the forest and ocean, practically hidden between opposing elements, and towards the stone path where the other two messengers would be waiting for him. He would have to return tomorrow and see if Kakashi had changed his mind about assisting their cause. The silence of the trees around him was welcoming, inviting creative initiative, unlike the lifelessness of the ones in the Leaf Village. And then he heard it, the twinkle of dragonflies…

Shiro spun swiftly, just as Kakashi leaned against the door-frame peacefully. "Tell him I'll try my best to deliver the package." He said.

Shiro smiled widely and nodded in agreement eagerly, after which he continued his walk through the dirt path. Perhaps there was hope for their village after all…

Kakashi leaned his neck back against the frame, his eyes softening as he glanced back at his daughter.

Her big wondering eyes were staring at him from the rim of the crystal tank.

He grinned. "How about a trip to the city, Suri?"

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-x-

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	3. The Devil's Company

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**Chapter Three**

**The Devil's Company**

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_I knew that I would die if I didn't take the next exit, turn right on Northeast Glisan, go twelve blocks and turn into the Providence Hospital Emergency Room parking lot. I parked. I took my keys and my bag, and I walked. The glass doors slid aside before I could really see myself reflected in them. The crowd, inside, all the people waiting with broken legs and choking babies, they all slid aside, too, when they saw me._

_After that, the intravenous morphine. The tiny operating room manicure scissors cut my dress up. The flesh-tone little patch panties. The police photos._

_The detective, the one who searched my car for bone fragments, the guy who'd seen all those people get their heads cut off in half-open car windows, he comes back one day and says there's nothing to find. Birds, seagulls, maybe magpies, too. They got into the car where it was parked at the hospital, through the open window. The magpies ate all of what the detective called the soft tissue evidence. The bones, they probably carried away. You know Miss, he said, to break them on rocks. For the marrow._

_On the pad, with the pencil, I wrote Ha, Ha, Ha._

_.Chuck Palahniuk. (Invisible Monsters)_

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…Six Days Later…

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Blackout Boulevard, in the _city of angels_, where winter's awakening washed away beneath a cloud of dreams.

Scattered about like wild rosebuds, prancing through the streaks of spring water splurging from the dimpled, wavy brownstone. Prelude to cozy twilight, the faint glow of sunrise hyped the vibrant jostle on the slippery pavement around the municipal fountain, structured in the vein of a dragon carousel. As loose sundresses clung to porcelain skin (jackets discarded), self-proclaimed musketeers and forest fairies dashed through the timed sprinklers soaking their entirety. Dripping bangs shielded their tiny, beaded eyes from the repenting, furious looks from their gawking parents who hid behind apologetic smiles addressed to the park's bystanders.

The colorful beads knotted on the children's wrists jingled while they sprinted in rebellious choreography away from their guardians. One even jumping into the ornate fountain with gushing water rushing from the snouts of sea dragons.

Innocence was bliss…

And through the shades of pink, lilac blurs — over the hum of heartily giggles — over the reflection of zero regrets, sat idly still a lone soldier.

Heart Station was a park, aptly in the heart of Hollows Creek, one of the few industrialized cities in Japan. It did not hide in the density of the forest, or plundered past iced mountains or rabid volcanoes of molten rock decor. It was a city lost to itself, a sort of limbo. Here lived the outcasts, the foreigners, the dreamers…

Hollows Creek did not hold a stream, or even a well amidst its advertising companies or frigidly tall billboards. It held no traditions or set religion, no true order or lawlessness. It was a world in itself that was often plagued by the wars of others, but filled with individuals who merely shrugged the violence and washed away the blood and began life all over again.

Hollows Creek was broken, yet immortal. The perfect delusion.

The flourishing trees were barricaded, homed on individual brown patches around the brownstone paths surrounding stone sculptures of folklore heroes. The park was almost like an island, yet the jitter of busy sidewalk traffic, noisy auto jams, and relentless gossip was far too loud to lose all sense of time completely.

Iruka watched a crumbling leaf of faded tint slowly collapse onto the dark wooden bench beside him — just as the last defiant toddler was clasped by the hand and forced into a furry coat. He glanced up, enjoying the obscure mold of the clouds, the dark blue and light crimson of night and day clash.

And then he stood, a soft smile grazing his lips, hands dipped into the pockets of his own large woven coat in midnight grey. The bicycles along the road were a common sight apparently, easy transportation through the narrow, populous streets. He felt small while gathered in a large crowd heading south, the northern throngs brushed roughly against his shoulders from time to time, but no one had time to apologize, or even look up.

Around him streetlights were changing, buildings were towering menacingly, signs were misleading, coffee shops were opening, and arguments were breaking between aggravated drivers and late pedestrians. And although all he could hear was the chime of shop bells and noisy horns; and all he could smell was the smog emitting from the subway tunnel; and all he could feel was the cold wetness of the legs of his pants (after a very rude driver drove insanely through a three-feet deep puddle of rain on the curve) — he felt absolutely at ease, swallowed by dumbstruck serenity.

They all had a light in their eyes, an indefinable glint, and in the most unexpected moments he'd catch himself advertently caught witnessing a random spectacle with no recollection of his prior purpose. Either street performers impersonating statues, or thespians performing scenes from plays he'd never heard of, or some child running after a poor frog that had freed itself from his puny wrath and was trying to balance a five-scoop cone while running after it, or a young woman in a yukata…wearing sneakers…

A dream hitherto? If he stole a glance up would he find clouds above his brow? A pink elephant dangling from the laundry lines? Was each turn at every curved sidewalk corner a lapse of fate? Were the tree blossoms chipped pints of glass, drippy ruby grit, reflecting the hot colors of the dead leaves drowning the roads?

Closing his eyes, a wide grin spread across his face. Apparently lightheadedness was some kind of virus, of chronic category, in this place, accompanied by such symptoms as ease of responsibilities and a lack of common sense.

Yet his senses told him something else…

He was almost there. The blue-collar mundane side of the city was closer with each step. Suddenly, there were no more crystal edifices but square-shaped huts, no flamboyant dragon costumes hiding six human bodies for instead the only colorful display Iruka witnessed was several teenage boys propped up on garbage tins and spraying graffiti throughout a cracked gray wall in front of a cemetery.

Traveling this final distance, counting streets he'd never visited, it almost felt like he was just another normal civilian heading out to catch a drink before work. But when it came into view, as soon as he stopped abruptly in the middle of the old, empty road, his fists clenched involuntarily.

On the other side of the street lay a broken down zakaya. The restaurant was the only traditionally-styled building Iruka had seen all day. Red, paper lanterns hung on the small porch roof, beneath which sat a haggard looking homeless man in a ripped suit, blowing bubbles. The hand which held the bubble soap bottle was charcoal black, burned, and his toothless grin as Iruka walked through the two wide oak doors gave Iruka enough time to notice that — he too had that glint in his eyes.

The first two smells that hit his senses were crunchy, deep-fried flounder and fragrant mushroom consommé. The light scheme inside was dim, so dim that Iruka could not even tell what color were the walls. There were low dining tables above tatami mats and scarcely any clientele except for some bearded questionable fellow by the jukebox snapping his finger to an instrumental song, and a group of middle aged women who looked utterly plastered (the Japanese version of Desperate Housewives…) and kept toasting every second or so for the same thing: infertility…

Iruka's eyes traveled to the crystal bar in the back, shelved with all types of poisons in thin, fruity bottles. The wide counter of burgundy oak stood in front of a row of twelve tall wooden stools, all empty, except for one.

It was then that he noticed that he still hadn't unclenched his fists, but he liberated his fingers swiftly, his back relaxing instantly at the sight of the stool's occupant. It was a feeling he regretted till this day, a sign that he was yet to let go of the past if this person still had this much power over him.

The bartender was keeping himself busy wiping a set of squeaky-clean glasses, but perhaps he was just trying to avoid making eye contact with the chubbiest of the 'bachelorette' party in the back who kept winking at him.

Iruka sat to the left of the occupied seat, forearms halfway resting on the counter. He kept his eyes fixed on his own reflection, as the bartender scanned the bottom counter for the usual bottle of sake. It then became obvious the bartender knew he was a foreigner, perhaps his tan gave him away, or the dullness of his pupils.

The figure beside him did not move, instead the hunched form still rested partially against the counter. One hand clawing a forehead, the other slowly circling the rim of a half empty glass of blue-berry tonic. An orange parasol rested on the ground beside the seat, drying off the rainfall.

Iruka was presented a glass before the bartender poured the golden liquid halfway, nodding once. Iruka merely grunted, with a hint of exasperation, before watching the young man turn to attend a new set of costumers that had sat on the other end of the bar.

It was strange, sipping quietly this drink in a city that seemed like a paranormal dream next to someone whose last words to him had been…_go fucking kill yourself asshole_…

"Tsunade…"

Her plum lips curved into a wicked smirk, eyelashes fluttering upwards, and piercing hazel eyes with a tint of promiscuousness looked right into the depths of his butterscotch eyes, through the reflection of the bar's glass. "Iruka…" came the response, with a husky, sluggish tenor that only Tsunade could pull off as the sexiest pick-up line.

"Evil resides in the city, I see." Iruka raised an eyebrow, chancing a glance her way.

Though the fringe of her glass held the imprint of her red lipstick her own lips were still vibrantly crimson. Her long legs were crossed, fitted into vogue stockings, her feet into black Aldo shoes. A baby blue tutu skirt matched with what seemed like a halter-top hidden behind an array of wicker colored scarves (or so he guessed, since her back was exposed entirely, except for a thin lace in the center tied neatly into a bow). The usual manicured fingernails, thick eyelashes, and look of utter discontent yet amusement were in play — as well as the three empty bottles of Jasper next to her glass.

"I prefer She-Devil." Tsunade mumbled, dappling her index finger inside the acidic toxin before bring it into her mouth and licking it thoughtfully. "So…what brings your tight ass to this, dare I say, cathartic hell hole?"

For the first time, she turned to him. Their stares met, the poor orange lighting from the lanterns also above the bar gave the illusion that they were both on fire, swimming in floating flames.

Iruka looked up, examining the lighting. "Care to explain the circus-like attire?"

Tsunade forced herself to stop smirking, though the corners of her mouth twitched up. It amused her to win their tiny un-discussed battles. "I get around."

"I think that's your problem," was his curt reply. "Getting back on track, not that I'm not ecstatic to be in your presence, can we get on with this heartwarming reunion?"

Tsunade chuckled darkly, bringing the glass to her lips and drinking down the last gist. When she finished she held the glass merely an inch from her lips, eyelids half lowered. "So you're playing messenger boy now? Cute. Very cute." She condescended briefly.

Iruka didn't take the bait; he merely stayed perfectly silent, fingers impatiently tapping against his own gripped glass.

It was obvious he hadn't expected it to be her. But he seemed far from disappointed, more along the lines of uncomfortable, perhaps even slightly unsettled, or even tempted to break into an argument, a rather heated one.

Tsunade sighed casually, blowing her droopy bangs out of her graceful face, furrowing classic features. "Where to begin?" she seemed to be asking more herself than her reluctant companion. She leaned back, reaching over to the stool beside her, where sat a buttery-brown bag which seemed rather overstuffed and screamed material abuse.

She placed it in front of her loudly, unzipping it with annoyance, since it seemed quite resilient to comply. Iruka merely rolled his eyes; Tsunade's unpredictability was like the range from the North Pole to the South.

She hummed quietly along to the instrumental tune playing in the zakaya, taking out random objects out of the bag that seemed to hold the depth of a black hole. Iruka refused to look her way, though from the corner of his eye he could have sworn he spotted a deck of strip-poker cards, several condoms and a death list…

"Hmm…here we go," she giggled, grasping a folder in teasing triumph before turning to look at him, waving it slightly with a pompous air.

Iruka's gaze froze momentary, examining the childish allure of the drunken siren. However, he did not allow himself to stare too long into her dark eyes arrayed with vintage lust, and instead settled to just glare at the black folder in her hands.

While the reasons for this meeting were unbeknownst even to him, in detail truly, the fact that he had traveled over a hundred miles for just a stinking paper-thin folder made him more than faintly aggravated. That thing better hold the secrets of humanity's crude existence or the location to the Fountain of Youth, or he might just sneak onto the roof of one of the resident buildings and jump off the…

"Do you usually space off this much?" Tsunade was busying herself by pouring yet another bottle's content into a glass rather shakily, her fourth bottle, and by the looks of it the bartender was used to this kind of displayed behavior.

Iruka repressed a growl, noting that losing his train of thought was most unlike his character; honestly this city was like an invisible drug. He then noticed that the folder was resting right beside him, still unopened.

"I take it you still have no fucking clue what you're even here for." Tsunade muttered, hunching her body once again against the counter. She saw Iruka's brow twitch slightly. "Aha…predictable…the Old Man has to get over this whole secrecy bullshit, honestly the whole mystery thing lost its flare years ago."

"What's in the folder Tsunade?" Iruka pressed, noting that she was practically pretending that the folder didn't exist; in fact, she seemed to refuse to even touch it.

Her eyes were even darker now, layered with detaching distrust. She was jingling something in her closed fist before letting it go right above her glass. The twin dices sank down to the bottom of the filled glass while she flicked her tongue in annoyed contemplation. "What exactly did the he tell you Iruka?" she mused.

Iruka touched the edge of the folder with the tips of his fingers.

"He said it was about information…"

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-x-

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Dirty raindrops dripped down from the curved corners of the temple and splattered to pieces onto the stone corridor path. The golden terrace lay filled with wild rosebuds, thickly entangled to the barks and branches of old, traditional backwoods. The fairytale forest with dark-toned trees of several hundred feet in length clustered on the other side of the trout infested lake, standing less than a mile away. But in this small vicinity, the diverse garden opened to form a circular mouth in the center, paved with flaxen sand dense like powdered milk.

Iruka stood spellbound, watching the aggressive grace of battle — the stealth of combat — the sheer fluidity of movements of a bloodied sword that lay impeccably clean. His right hand was folded and embracing thick colorful robes that brushed the ground, his left hand lay above the satin, fingernails digging involuntarily into the fabric.

He could see invisible bodies falling to the ground, being sliced in half in one simple _slash! _Ethereal whispering whisked past his ears, a caved lullaby submerged in dark bliss. An unknown, yet familiar, tune tickling the sense of touch, lying to the effigy of sin — a silent dance of ashes joined tenderly with the sin of rebirth.

The rebirth of war.

The Hokage panted silently, the tip of his sword merely an inch from the ground, his body slanted sideways as he examined a nonexistent enemy. Another violent gust sent the sand beneath his feet into small whirlpools that disappeared as quickly as they formed, giving the illusion of being inside the Eye of a hurricane, safe yet in mortal doom.

Drops dripped from his crooked nose and down his bare back and chest, like rivers streaming through the craters of his wrinkled, scarred flesh. He gathered his breath, and he was once again lost in his own warrior dance, bringing death to his own demons, own fears.

The blood-red ribbon tied to the handle of the sword swayed in the fierce breeze.

He was like a ghost: impossible to truly follow or thoroughly understand. Iruka exhaled slowly, watching the grayness of the sky slowly transform into nightfall, a stormy dusk rebelliously ignoring time's prophesying noon. Scrutinizing the Hokage while he quarreled with such intensity brought about a sole conclusion, a decision was only seconds in the delivery. Iruka's concern had been slowly escalating from uneasiness to the development of twitching mannerisms.

The Hokage hadn't spoken to him since the previous dismissal of the messengers, several days ago.

He'd been locked in the small prayer temple on the murky third-story, hands entangled, the casual wooden pipe dangling from the side of his thin lips, kneeling in front of the most ancient of stone spirits, while the candles on the floor flickered, emitting a bruising glow that slithered even from the bottom of the door.

What he could possibly be contemplating, or asking forgiveness for or guidance of, was unknown even to Iruka, the closest of his colleagues. The darkness of the windowless room seemed of little comfort or enlightenment, but the Hokage had apparently reached a decision, a resolution he was physically battling with at this very moment. A selection he did not fully agree with but seemed like the only logical solution to the upcoming epidemic. He was like a cornered mouse, turning to his jagged teeth as a last resort against the starving house kitten.

He seemed absentminded, almost disinterested in the tournament he himself had devised with brilliant precision.

And then the battle was over.

The sword was incrusted into the ground with a purposeful swoop, his body stopped with firm confidence, and a choice was reached with much apprehension.

"Sire," Iruka's voice was hoarse, the humidity and damp atmosphere burning his throat. "The first contestants have already begun to arrive. Preliminary battles are being held as we speak in the Eastern Hall. Do you not wish to attend?"

The Hokage was gazing upwards, whether he had heard Iruka's request was still unknown since he remained unresponsive. He seemed entranced by a frail mockingbird tantalizing one of the roses on the spine of a nearby tree. "Who is directing the fiasco?" he replied after a pregnant pause.

Iruka's eyes betrayed his surprise.

What a word to use, _Fiasco_… a disaster, a failure, utter spreading humiliation…

"Hayo Hikaru," Iruka replied, his voice quiet, like an awaiting child seeking a treat.

The Hokage chuckled enigmatically. "What are the qualifications to compete? Two legs?"

Iruka opened his mouth to respond but was having difficulty finding his voice. Perhaps it was initiative; his senses were prickling, reacting to the approaching storm. "More or less," he cleared. "Although, if this is not too bold of me to say, I believe you should be in charge — after all, this whole tournament was your idea, you should be present to choose the small army that will lead us to battle. Hikaru has no right to appoint himself chairmen of this event."

"Iruka, Iruka," He nodded his head from side to side, the corners of his mouth twitching up slightly. "Why waste my time with an army filled with toy soldiers? They're all inadequate, poor fighters who do not possess the required skill to destroy our versatile enemies. Our finest ninjas are out in missions far too vital for the security and concealment of our village. Besides, you and I well know that even their hands aren't tainted with enough blood to end this confrontation."

_Enough blood_…

"They must enjoy playing God," the Hokage murmured, his eyes glinting with fury. "Sitting in their thrones, gulping down their favorite poison and watching children playing ninjas and breaking each other's faces for the sake of impressing them."

Iruka was astounded, since that was exactly the scene in the Eastern Hall. From the second story the Council, the pompous 'Greek Gods', watched the fights with contentment and humor, like a rehearsed show, clapping at the draw of blood.

"They are secretly anxious about the competition." Iruka confessed. "They're frightened that this is some kind of plot to overtake them, to murder them so you'll be the sole ruler once more. Although, I wouldn't find such thoughts dim, their leadership abilities are nothing in comparison to yours. They concretely believe you're planning something rather hostile."

"They should be afraid," the Hokage continued watching the mockingbird; the agile creature was tearing the rose to shreds in its miniscule beak. "But what I am planning should terrify all of us."

Iruka wrinkled his brow. "Sire?"

"I think it is time I take over this tournament, Iruka," for the first time the Hokage's cryptic eyes found his. "If the Council wishes entertainment, then we'll give them a tournament they'll surely never forget. Bring forth every capable body into our honorable challenge. Every calculating mercenary, the slipperiest S-Class Criminals, every infamous and bloody assassin, bring them all to stand upon my terrace…"

"_W-what?_" Iruka snapped with disbelief.

"Promise them glory, blood, and fortune. They'll flock to this village in mere days."

"You will create an army of _criminals_?" Iruka asked with repulsion. He was beginning to understand why the Hokage had had such difficulty taking this alien decision.

"Of course not, Iruka. My army is already created." The Hokage clarified with crafty assurance. "My army was created a very long time ago…years even…Konoha itself fashioned it."

Iruka blinked bewilderment from his eyes, and then narrowed them. "I don't understand." He admitted.

"The Council has chosen to be deaf and have not heeded the pending warnings, Iruka. Thus I find it only adequate to request guidance from the blind and information from the mute."

His ambiguous words made Iruka nauseous. Surely he didn't understand correctly. The mentioning of plastic soldiers was no metaphor, the Council's perpetual stupidity could be no act, and the required amount was but a sheer coincidence. None of these circumstances could possibly lead to a reoccurring waltz, never again would such conditions play out in that order. But then again…

Iruka felt the sudden strike of realization, the queuing bolt. The spreading awareness ran through his veins with tingling adrenaline and a euphoric rush slapped his brain with cold sense.

"Thirteen contestants…" he repeated, with quiet horror.

"Thirteen," the Hokage nodded the idea away dismissively, while walking towards him. He gathered his robes in his hands and began pacing away sluggishly, ignoring Iruka's petrified features. "Go to Hollow's Creek. There's a zakaya called Shrine Gate there, you must meet our colorful mute acquaintance there."

Iruka nodded immediately although the Hokage's back was still turned towards him; the command had broken his trance.

"…one more thing, Iruka." His voice echoed throughout the corridor before he disappeared around the corner.

Iruka hesitated slightly. "Yes?"

"Remove all poisonous flowers from my garden."

Iruka turned. The mockingbird lay lifeless, beside the torn rosebud.

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-x-

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Tsunade snickered while gulping down half of the glass in one breath.

Iruka narrowed his eyes, watching her slightly choke with the liquid. Whatever she found so amusing was beyond him, nevertheless, her ability to agitate and infuriate him was either a godly gift or a diabolical curse, but in her erratic perspective: a fucking reward.

Tsunade threw her head back, chuckling loudly, making several of the restaurant clients twirl in wonder. Her laugh was rather maniac, but had the tilt of someone who should have stopped drinking above five hours ago…

She held a hand to her throat, controlling her giggles. "Aww! You got the PG version. I loved how he added the whole see no evil, hear no evil, do no…"

"I'm really not in the fucking mood right now for your mind games. Get to the point. I have a three day walk back to Konoha where I have to deliver whatever-the-hell it is that you tell me here. So start." Iruka ordered, his voice low as he looked down at her, one hand clasping the back of her stool — the other on the top of her glass, creating a physical cage.

She stopped laughing immediately, her eyes equally defiant. Before Iruka could even notice or retaliate she had her head dug into the nook of his neck. Her lips brushed against it and began trailing up his cheekbone before they rested right above his right ear. "You know," he gulped. "One day you're going to have to confess to me what cologne you use."

And then she was out of his grasp, had flipped the small folder open and begun flipping pages through it as though it were the daily paper. "The Hokage wasn't being deceitful when he told you that he doesn't want lowly criminals in his militia." Her voice was mechanical, hinting the ambiguous.

Iruka's back stiffened. Tsunade loved twisting things around, which could only mean one thing.

"Instead," the whispered word rolled off her tongue sluggishly, "he has to fill eight positions out of the nine with his men, leaving one of the Council's idiotic puppets to hang around as the ninth mark, to make them believe that they will in fact play a vital role in the final battle. A crafty illusion in a way, a morsel of power in the grand feast of elements — poor guy will probably be the first one eaten alive…"

Iruka nodded in accord, privately hoping Tsunade's comment wasn't literal, and watching her still flip the pages like it were a magazine, head tilted in snooping wonder.

"So as an alternative to paying off trivial criminals to obliterate the Hans, he's decided that instead he's going to contract eight ghostly myths do so…eight celebrity-status assassins…eights reasons, in a way, why Konoha is in the hands of the devil."

Before Iruka could truly register her words Tsunade took out a glossy sheet of paper from inside the folder, and placed it before him. Iruka's eager eyes drank in the information before him faster than Tsunade was filling her third glass.

He picked up the paper, fingers trembling slightly.

"Ooh, do read aloud, adds to the whole suspenseful mood." Tsunade's sarcasm was evident as she revolved the glass before her eyes, watching the dices hit the sides.

Iruka shot her a rather perverse look after which he turned back to the picture in front of him. "Is this a mug shot?" he seemed puzzled, no worse, disturbed.

The star of the picture was a beautiful young woman, much like the one beside him, leaning back dramatically, with her chest raised high in the air and her hands in her loose wild hair while scrunching her lips into a pouty kiss directed at the camera. "What the hell was she posing for, Incarceration Magazine?" he spat, utterly unsettled.

A pile of the same glossy papers was suddenly heaved down in front of him, compliments of Tsunade.

Iruka blinked repeated, almost as though trying to blink away the image before him. He grabbed several papers at once, comparing them to one another, shuffling through like a frantic journalist five minutes before a deadline.

"Are all of these _police reports_?"

Tsunade shrugged apathetically, digging a hand into her locks and twirling a strand. "I'm not the only one that gets around."

Iruka picked up reading from the center of a testimony paragraph. _"…the suspect then proceeded by jumping on the hood of a Jaguar Roadster and began shooting at the fleeing robber, until she ran out of bullets. She did twelve rounds of silver-shift bullets, fifty per _—_ in a public, crowded subway…_"

He wasn't going to do the math, but those were several hundred bullets. And what the hell was a Roadster doing in a subway?

"Slight technically," Tsunade dismissed, with a wave of her hand.

Iruka's lips were dry. Slight? "_The suspect then began having a physical altercation with a Razor on the tracks…_" he continued.

"Razors are androids. They're a female elite group, part co-founders of the Black Market." Tsunade explained breezily, knowing the terminology better than what had happened the night before.

"_Train derailed: fifteen killed._" Iruka finished, darkly.

Tsunade poked her glass with a long nail, nearing it to the edge excitedly. "Wrong place. Wrong time."

He shot a glare her way. Was she determined to excuse every violent, irrelevant action?

"_Sued six times for disobedient conduct _(he skipped over the passage mentioning a strip pole)_ and utter destruction of public and private property._"

Tsunade's chin was on the counter. "Juvenile sentence."

"She threw a grenade through two bar windows!" Iruka practically screeched before lowering his voice, not wanting to attract attention. "— destroyed an apartment single handedly with a bat, put a half-a-gallon chug of TNT into…"

Tsunade grumbled. "The bars were being used for mafia contrabands, the apartment was her ex's — in bed with two girls— as for the rest of the bombings don't sweat it. This society can use only so many courthouses."

There was an awkward silence, in which Iruka was contemplating the Hokage's sanity.

"Anything else?" Tsunade's twinkling eyes met his blank stare.

"Just one. The one I guess I'm supposed to ask." He placed the tainted record down. "Where is she now?"

Tsunade looked up, dark lines under her eyes. "Well…"

.

-x-

.

Was that the sky? Power lines? Skyscrapers?

Dizzy. Oh so dizzy. Why was the world spinning so fast?

Eyelids barely open, thick lashes obscuring the hazy view. Pupils dilating, fluttering from left to right without reason, or control. Trying to focus a picture, a spot, a specter of light.

This lilac azure, dusk. That raping smell, alcohol. That…that comic ticking…heels?

And now he could see.

Above him the sky was moving, the sprinkled stars lay in lazy shapes. The rooftops of high buildings grew further and further away, or perhaps he was just imagining that they were. It felt like he was being eaten alive by the gravel. Yet, could the reason that the world felt like it was in motion be that _he_ was in motion?

And then realization struck.

He couldn't feel his body.

He tried breathing through his nose. But it was cracked open, dried blood clogging the nostrils. He tried to touch his face, but his hands were individually tied, a thick rope binding up to his forearms, pigmenting them a dark, bruising purple.

His breath was failing him, he was like a fish out of water taking in oxygen on a hot, dry pier.

_Just walk, please, just get up and walk away…_

He looked down. His kneecaps were smashed to pieces; he could see the red liquid seeping through his ripped pants.

So he did the only thing he could do.

He screamed.

The painful cry echoed through the dark alley between the two mundane, brick buildings, terrifying a scrawny cat previously dumpster diving who sprinted off into the deserted street. While the victim's body continued to be dragged into the darkness…

What the hell was happening? Where was he?

Blood trickled down his head, his shirt soaking with hypertensive sweat. He'd been on the verge of unconsciousness, but now the adrenaline, the animalistic instinct of survival, had his eyeballs webbed with red veins and panic. And that's when he finally noticed he was being hauled by the back of his shirt's collar, the rest of his limp body leaving a trail of blood on the badly paved sidewalk.

He leaned his neck back slightly, getting an upside-down scrutiny at his road director.

Cold memories sprang to mind.

A female giggle, the holy scent of intoxication — cheap music, his lips trailing up her neck — a Polaroid camera, things better left unsaid — heels clinking as she led him to the door…past building after building…and then…

Smash! Crack! Pop? Oopsy, are you bleeding?

_Oh fuck, she's a bounty hunter isn't she…_

She released the shirt's collar and his head plummeted to the floor ungracefully.

"Shit!" He cried out in pain, a blinding concussion crawling up throughout his face.

Digging a hand into her loose curled locks, she walked towards the parked vintage Jaguar Roadster under the ancient, rowed balconies. Her low-cut jeans were an inch too low for any moderate decency, allowing the straps of her racy undergarment to rise high over her thighs, in contrast to the dark blue in lacy black. She had six inch heels, not perfect for running, but good enough to smash open an eye socket, or front teeth, which ever itched her temper.

"You…you…crazy ass bitch…" He murmured, spitting sideways on the glassy, watered ground.

She stopped. Then whirled something in her hand with ease, before allowing the steel bat to rest on her right shoulder. He'd missed that crucial detail in his previous inspection. The object that had been used to turn him into a raggedy puppet was still in her grasp.

He visible trembled, was it the temperature? The utterly hopeless situation? The blood dripping off the tip of the bat?

"You're lucky I like you." She turned her head, winking his way flirtatiously, before continuing her modeled walk to her broken-down convertible. Opening the driver's side door she leaned inside, resting one of her knees on the washed-lime leathered seat and reaching down, feeling the crusty carpet floor for her cigarette box.

Once in hand, the bat was discarded to the backseats, landing on top of stacked clothing and withering junk from what seemed like a recent, unfinished move. Looking inside the miniature box, she counted only one cigarette left.

Was this the only chance he was going to get? The bitch had hidden his gun and smashed him up after sending two packs of ice up his arms. Would someone like him give in this easily?

Slowly, he began to move his body sideways, like a rocker, until it flipped over completely. The ground wasn't particularly kind to the slashed flesh of his nose, but shutting his eyes he forced his numb hands to move and grasp the ground, pulling his body.

One inch at a time.

Taking out her silver schemed lighter, she had just placed the cigarette on her lips when she caught sight of the buffoon inching his way through the gravel, from the rearview mirror. Desperate idiot. Damn, and she had just gotten comfortable too. She lowered her legs down from the steering wheel and scanned the back of her car for any creative tools of torture.

That roll of duct tape looked fun.

By the time he heard the driver's door slam closed it was too late.

Placing the sole cigarette in the valley between her breasts, of her mini (micro) halter top in indistinctive lavender, she spotted a fist-sized rock by the dumpster.

"Silly little goose," Slow, venomous words.

A hard kick to the abdomen. A spiteful of blood. And he was once more turned on his back, looking into the face of…

She sat on top of his torso, a leg on either side of him. "All it takes is one little twist, and your leg comes off like a severed chicken neck. You don't want that, do you?" She stroked his cheek delicately with a motherly look, digging the nails of her other hand into the flesh of his kneecap. He let out a terrified scream. "Of course you don't. Now be a good boy and I won't smash the other half of your skull."

Before he could respond the rock was shoved into his mouth, jamming into his teeth. He could taste the blood of the broken dentures. She broke off a piece of tape with her own teeth, in one swift move, and pasted the material over his lips.

It was like he was shocking with his own saliva.

"That feels awful doesn't it?" She pouted. "Oh I bet it feels like you're drowning in your own spit. Yeah, that's how it felt to kiss you. Now, up we go."

She grabbed his bloody, sweaty locks and pulled him up before sending a kick to the trunk of her nearby car, busting it open. She pushed him inside, head first, cramming his body into the small space with difficulty. He was crying by now, muffed whimpers like a dying, sick animal.

Smiling, she threw him a kiss before slamming the trunk closed, while the fingers of his right hand were still on the ledge.

It's okay, only one came off. The rest twitched compulsively.

Too bad he couldn't scream, but his eyes were probably bulging out of his sockets.

She jumped on the trunk, making the fingers twitch with greater discourse, and leaned against the rear glass. The moonlight now the only lighting since the street lamps were too far off on the other end of the alleyway. Finally, she placed the cigarette on her lips and lit the long-time enemy, savoring the taste of nicotine.

Gray, ambiguous shapes swayed in the night breeze while she unfolded a crumbled piece of paper that had been in her jean's back pocket. She placed it above her head and read the clear, bold letters of civil jargon as her front teeth toyed with the cigarette.

_Shay Haisaito_

_Wanted _—_ Alive_

_Serial Rapist_

The only context she truly cared about came next.

_Reward: 20,000 yen._

Shitty pay, but a girl has to make a living. Jumping off the trunk, she climbed into the driver's seat and hit reverse.

Insipid lyrics followed by hard-core rock beats blasted off her car stereo.

_Fuck the bitch of life, and take all of her money while she's sleeping!_

All that mattered under the luminous night was he'd been defeated. By a six foot, blonde…

She stopped by a routine red light.

A police car parked right in back of her.

Shay's fingers continued to twitch…

.

-x-

.

"Ino…" Iruka murmured, his glass against his forehead, the cool perspiration soothing his painstaking headache.

"Usually she'd be halfway to China by now, but unfortunately for her she's currently under pursuit by half the police force of the West Side." Tsunade looked down at her watch. "She should be driving over a bridge about now, later handcuffed in the back of a police car, and being driven to county jail. Section C, cot 7-2 — third door to the left in Hall 83."

The way she acted as though her tale was happening as she spoke like a processing recording only made the nerves in his forehead twist in greater discourse.

"That's comforting." Iruka looked up from his recently set down drink, for the first time detecting the key dangling from Tsunade's index finger by a glittering chain.

"And that is?"

"Her cell key." She placed it on the bar tabletop and flicked it with her finger, it whirled, stopping in front of Iruka.

"…There's a dead body in the trunk of her car. When it's resurfaced she'll be facing federal charges. If you ask me, she should be halfway to Mexico."

"Wrong perspective, you have the initiative that she gives a shit." Tsunade stated bluntly, chin now on her opened palm. "Twenty bucks: She's lying down in her cot smoking a joint with the three prostitutes in the neighboring cell while retelling horny bar tales. Up for that bet?" Iruka only stared. "Around three she should be making her escape to one of the harbor ships, but just to skip to the next city in the southern tip. You can catch up with her if you get out of here before two."

Iruka didn't respond, instead he forced himself to once again look through her records while his thoughts began to piece everything together.

_Bring forth every capable body into our honorable challenge. Every calculating mercenary, the slipperiest S-Class Criminals, every infamous and bloody assassin, bring them all to stand upon my terrace…_

The words were a constant echo. He thought he understood before but it was not until now that true comprehension dawned. Under the glow of these peach-shaped lanterns Iruka finally knew the hidden truth. The criminals weren't there to serve as contestants…they were there to camouflage, like petty toy soldiers, the bloody reputations that would waltz onto the Hokage's _real_ terrace…

Iruka's initial, unspoken answer had been right all along.

"You still with me sweetie?" Tsunade now rested on her folded arms. Her switching positions so quickly was making this whole concentration thing difficult! "You know, sometimes when you set them free they create their own cages."

"Don't start." He cut directly, placing Ino's monstrous record aside. "Next subject."

Fucking peachy, seven to go…

She was playing hot-potato with an ice, looking upwards at a dangerous angle. "You know, I think we're all just retarded butterflies."

Oh dear god.

"You don't say," Iruka gave Tsunade's (probably) thirtieth empty glass an apprehensive look.

"Yeah, we've already developed our wings but we're all stuck inside the cocoon. Because we're afraid to fly, fucking pansies."

"As much as your analogies entertain me and make me want to hurl into an isolated cocoon called insanity — I'm on a deadline." He gave the clock across the bar a glance, half past nine.

Tsunade's forehead was on the tip of the table — when the hell did she even move there?

"Come here Cerberus," she glanced up towards the bar's shelves, patting her lap; her voice layered with cheeriness. "Good boy! Who's a good boy?"

Iruka watched the invisible dog display, knowing fully-well that Tsunade might not be a stable alcoholic but the woman spoke irony quite fluently.

"Cerberus…"

A black, spiked circle spun on the table after Tsunade flung it out of her miraculously-stuffed bag.

It rotated, in a still surface before resting softly against the burned-red oak.

"That's a collar, Tsunade…" he stated matter-of-factly.

She was nodding quietly, in drunken amusement. "Actually that's his file."

Iruka looked up, his perplexed features demanding an explanation.

She bit her lower lip. "Are you familiar with the Underworld?"

.

-x-

.

…The overhead lights flickered, flooding the room every millisecond with a blinding green flash of radiance…

It was like a skipping record, one second he was yards away — the other a mere foot from the other's face. Taunting his prey…

"_Blood!" a deafening purr._

He jogged in place now, closing his eyes and breathing in the smell of dried blood. He smashed his fists into his palms, a wicked, hungry look in the serpent-slanted eyes of his scaled, tattooed, squared face.

"_Blood! Blood!" was the loud chant._

"Ladies and gentlemen!" a booming voice overpowered the crowds' pleas. "Today's challenger comes from a pure-blood family, with a reputation worse than a three-headed demon. The prince of striping-crowns, whose legendary career was formed destroying other legendary contenders!"

The tattooed fighter practiced jags in the air at a dangerous speed: up — down — side — other side!

"But does he have what it takes to defeat our ranging champion, Snake Eyes?" the expected combination of cheers and scoffs followed piercingly.

Snake Eyes smirked, sending his arms up in the air and received the usual applause, with a mocking pace.

"There's only one way to find out. Here comes the next contestant!"

The lights finally stilled, green ranged.

"Cerberus!"

"_Blood! Blood! Blood! Blood!"_

Within a cage of blood-tainted cement, barbwires tangled around the edges of the top. The arena was a story-and-a-half in depth; the cracking tile floor glistened beneath the harsh bulbs. Cerberus stood quite motionless, shoulders slumped in disinterest, and attired in the usual one piece striped suit carelessly filthy.

Yet his mere presence demanded respect.

Above on the second story were rowed black leather seats, where suit-clad old gentlemen stroked the cheeks of frighteningly young waitresses, smoked imported cigars or laughed as they watched their associates huddled around the arena holding crisp bills in their hands and chanting down at the **pups**…

Don't lose all sense of self control, ignore that murderous instinct, had been the fleeting command. But he smelled the fear perspiring from his neck, the rage of his clenching and unclenching fists, hah, did he really think he could win? Stay calm Cerberus, your master told you to give these people a show — longer than a mere minute. Ignore the imbecile…

Pomazanoff was the only spectator not glutting in champagne or female company, his eyes were trailing Cerberus, silently telling the pup that a fast death would not amuse his colleges.

"You've got to be fucking kidding me," said Snake Eyes through gritted teeth. "This kid is Cerberus, the Cerberus…"

Cerberus arched an eyebrow.

"Well," Snake Eyes took a fighting stance. "This is a disappointment."

Cerberus narrowed his eyes, and then he was gone. Next split second, Snake Eyes was falling forward, Cerberus's kneecap making his ribs release a nice little 'crackle-crack' sound.

Pomazanoff sighed sharply, massaging his brow. "I should have warned your fighter Cerberus has a rather short temper. But what can I do? You have to let a puppy be." He was addressing Snake Eyes' master, who had just smashed his glass in his fisted hand.

Meanwhile, Cerberus was busy rearrange Snake Eyes' bone structure — starting with that ridiculous smirk.

"So, what did you bet again? Three million?" Pomazanoff solicited teasingly, watching the repenting looks many of the promoters were casting at the challenger's owner.

Snake Eyes was already immobile. Cerberus was gripping his hair and was entertaining himself by smashing his head consecutively against the tiled floor, which was smashing to pieces, coming off like pealing wallpaper, along with his skin. Blood splattered onto Cerberus's face yet he continued the aggressive assault until finally something else did pop and he released a growl, letting go of Snake Eye's locks and watching his lifeless body fall to the ground.

Gosh, what a disappointment.

"Well, that was entertaining." Pomazanoff said dryly, sipping his drink.

"H-he just smashed his head open like a fucking egg." The fascination in that voice was quickly picked up by the rest of the spectators.

The seatmate next to him leaned over. "Where on earth did you find this…this…demon?"

"Raised him myself," Pomazanoff lied arrogantly. He'd taken out his cell phone and turned to the other caller after this sole and final comment. "He did it, _again_. Take out Contender B."

"And the winner is Cerberus!" the booming voice was back.

Cerberus wiped away the blood from his lips in disgust before cracking his neck in one swift movement.

"So now, to add a little twist to this game…"

Cerberus looked up; his master's eyes were gleaming with anticipation. He knew this had been far too easy.

"We have yet another challenger that wishes to fight the Demon Dog!"

Cerberus turned slowly, for the caged door through which he had entered was sliding upwards again and through the darkness he could see two slitting eyes in ambiguous gold.

"You're insane!" Pomazanoff's seatmate laughed. "Why the hell are you sacrificing your best fighter?"

But he didn't respond while he stroked his chin, this was just another walk in the park for Cerberus, pun seriously intended.

Cerberus could hear the chant starting again, and this time he clawed his own hands beside him, fingers itching with little electric shocks. He was excited, finally, a fight he could have some fun in.

The doors were scarcely to the top when the African lion jumped out towards him, jaw opened and revealing several dozen glistening teeth.

.

-x-

.

"Is he dead?"

"No." Tsunade whispered, still resting on her arms. "But he's missing. He ditched his master sometime last month. There's no trace of him anywhere. After all, he has no file for anyone to track him down with."

"So we're fucked." Iruka motioned the bartender that he was ready for his second bottle.

"15th Floor."

"Let me guess…"

But at that moment the bartender walked over, giving both Tsunade and Iruka a sort of exasperated look. He opened the new bottle and placed it next to Iruka's slouched form before being called over back to the bachelorette posse — by some wild cat calls.

"I can't tell you where it is," Tsunade began. "So I'll contact this little bundle of sunshine for you."

"How you know these things, eludes me." Iruka mumbled, noticing that the jukebox guy was still swaying from side to side with his feet glued to the ground next to the jukebox.

"Can you imagine something that signifies power stronger than a seventeen year old blood-thirsty killer with the power to crush your skull in the palm of his hand, as your mere pet? I —" her eyes widened suddenly and Iruka nearly fell out of his chair in anticipation. "Oh my god! I love this song!" she turned towards the jukebox figure. "Turn it up!"

Ladies and gentlemen, Tsunade has left the building…

Iruka shot the jukebox stranger a look that clearly warned him of the consequences of raising the volume of that song.

"I hope the Hokage knows what he's doing," Tsunade's tone was suddenly cheerless. "Or he might be getting Konoha into bigger shit than it already is in."

Iruka could honestly not take this. It was ten in the morning for heaven's sake.

"Ino and Shikamaru are in a cat and mouse game."

The top of the bottle with which he had been filling his glass slipped slightly, spilling the liquid. Of course, _typical._

"Ah, Ino is the bounty-hunting cat seeking the big pay check and Shikamaru is the big prize worth a couple of million alive, as appointed by his illegal owner who placed his head in the Black Market." Iruka accurately guessed.

"She's having trouble with this mission. She's not used to having to bring the criminals back alive." Tsunade whispered, amused.

"Konoha is in good hands…" Iruka spat, for the first time taking a hefty gulp from his drink and leaning back in his stool.

And to think, this was the tip of the iceberg.

.

-x-

.

* * *

**AN:** Cue the Titanic…

_Fuck me. I'm so tired of being me. Me beautiful. Me ugly. Blonde. Brunette. A million fucking fashion makeovers that only leave me trapped being me._

_Who I was before the accident is just a story now. Everything before now, before now, before now, is just a story I carry around. I guess that would apply to anybody in the world. What I need is a new story about who I am._

_What I need to do is fuck up so bad I can't save myself._

_.Chuck Palahniuk. (Invisible Monsters)_


	4. The Butterfly Effect

.

**Chapter Four**

**The Butterfly Effect**

.

.

.

_Tea party at a funeral…_

The only logical definition for the silence masquerading the old zakaya, excluding the facts that: instead of a diseased comrade the discussion revolved around infamous slaughter savvies, the grieving wife was a long-legged alcoholic dressed like a prostituting clown, the sole family member was an exasperated ninja sent on a mission to recruit the scum of severe psychosis, the priest served shots straight up with lime or rimmed with salt, and instead of tea they sipped their poison of choice underneath poor, blinding lighting in a fairytale limbo.

Woopty-doo?

Iruka was pinching the bridge of his nose with this thumb and forefinger, eyes closed yet stirring slightly. His other hand was impatiently, although it would be measured as strict patience if you considered his state of mind at the moment, tapping his fingers on the bar counter.

Before the only sound had been the usual noisy cricket hiding only God-knows-where; that was, until Tsunade downed her — what was it, fifth? — Yeah _fifteenth_ cherry rum/sake mix, modeled her way to the jukebox and decided to turn this place into some kind of 80's allure, overly choreographed movie scene.

The desperate housewives crew in the back had been begging for a reason to start stripping off their clothes…the bartender was nowhere to be found.

"Tsunade, would you please just get down from there?" Iruka managed to say in a controlled voice, resembling a hyped three-headed underground fighter right before the kill.

Tsunade ignored him, clapping her hands above her head and swaying to the music, five-inch stilettos on the counter — unofficial blood promise: if she began to strip too he was out of here. He guessed he could find the bartender probably in the third stall in the bathroom, barricading the entrance.

"You know what your problem is?" Tsunade asked loudly over the music, discarding her scarves over her shoulders, and leaning down towards him as she dug her hands into her hair. That halter-top was dangerously low cut. Iruka looked down again.

"Don't you see my ears prickling up?" he shot back and gripped his drink, before she slipped back down onto the neighboring stool with ease.

Was that jukebox guy dancing with chubby housewife?

Tsunade snapped her fingers, shoulders swinging up and down. "We need to find you a girl." She muttered.

"What I _need_ is to get the hell out of this town and go seek my army." Iruka glanced at her brown bag, wondering if Tsuande had a pile of rope in there, probably, and right next to her life-time supply of poisoned apples. "And what you need is directions to the nearest AA meeting."

The atmosphere was calming down already, since the _party planner_ had decided to sit back down in momentary control (more like alcoholic crave). Fortunately, out of nowhere an apron-clad waitress appeared out of the mystery door next to the bar, which everyone had failed to truly take into notice. Though it looked more like a portrait, and in this lighting, honestly, who really gave a shit?

The bachelorette crew merely released excited squeals, gathered their clothes from the ground, and sat back down amidst torn present wrappers and discarded bottles to enjoy the nice cuisine on the silver tray centered in their light pink-clothed dining table.

Iruka's nose picked up the hot soggy aroma of bouillabaisse and the clinking of glasses in another unnecessary toast made the shrimp cocktails soar into the air.

And then the bartender appeared once again out of nowhere as well, reading a black covered novel. Honestly, he literally slipped up like he'd just arrived on an elevator from behind the counter. Iruka found himself leaning forward slightly, examining the floor, yeah…just let that one slide…

Meanwhile Tsunade was still lost in her own world, her own party world — and Iruka guessed from the sensual raving movements she'd just sneaked off into the VIP area of the dark hole that was her subconscious. She had her own drink high in the air, eyes closed while enjoying the loud technical beats.

Such senseless orgasmic tunes, frankly that's what it was. Iruka was trying to ignore the music with fruitless efforts, though the high pitched voice continued violating his mind with phrases like 'I want to go — I've got to run…something, something…sound of my dream?' That made absolute no sense.

"Have you noticed that we've changed, Iruka?" Tsunade's husky tone was back, her drink against her cheek as she gathered her breath, bangs clinging to her forehead with glistening sweat.

"Oh yeah," Iruka snarled. "You now drink a dozen bottles of sake before noon instead of the customary six."

Apparently that wasn't the answer Tsunade had really wanted, though from her half pout it was obvious she expected it. The bartender suddenly approached them and placed two broad ceramic cups filled with green tea (adorned with two balmy leafs) on the counter before them. He smiled, trying to break the tension from the stares of his two costumers who seemed rather insulted that he had pretty much outspokenly said — sober up and get the fuck out.

Tsunade was laughing again, that musical tilt of hers, and Iruka felt the hairs on the back of his neck stand up involuntarily. She then reached forward, grabbing the poor bartender by his black tie, and pulled him frontward until he was practically resting against the counter, his face inches from her. "You seem like a very intelligent young man." she said, half of her face obscured beneath long bangs.

The bartender blinked back in embarrassed surprise and merely nodded his head.

Iruka rolled his eyes. Fantastic, what the hell could she be planning now?

"Do you see this strapping bastard beside me?" she looked at Iruka from the corner of her eye, he was looking away at the blank wall to his left, the tendons of his fists jumping slightly. "Believe it or not, we both once lived and danced to the same philosophy: live it up…"

"Or drink it up." Iruka finished, and looked back into Tsunade's slightly startled eyes.

She smiled, turning her attention back to the bartender who was trying to slowly back away from her grasp. But she had grabbed his collar and was busy playing with the fabric, undoing his tie, and unbuttoning the top of his shirt. "Can I tell you a secret?" she whispered loudly, lips hovering temptingly above the bartender's, who gave Iruka a quick glance — Iruka was examining his own nails with great disinterest.

Before he could respond Tsunade was grinning, eyes directed heavenward as though trying to remember something. "You see, we grew up together in a small little secret village called Konoha…"

"Key word: secret." Iruka interjected, casting a glance toward the bartender. He knew the guy thought Tsunade was way beyond drunk, which she was, and wouldn't take anything she said seriously.

"We were all clustered into our own little groups to learn how to be kick-ass ninjas," she continued as though he'd never interrupted her. "We all had to stay in these crappy dorm rooms while still in school, but at night, we used to tip-toe past the sensei quarters and sneak off into the real world…"

Iruka groaned. So _this_ was what she was getting at.

Tsunade was already chuckling to herself over a private joke. "We used to just go out and do the stupidest shit," her voice held wondrous reverie, and for the first time all trail of sarcasm disappeared. "Once, we sneaked off to this lake on the other side of the Haiku Path and went skinny-dipping — of course, Obito thought such an activity required zero articles of clothing."

Iruka shuddered slightly, grabbing the tea cup and taking a long sip. The warm liquid burned his throat, helping him to once again gain control over his surroundings and own temperament.

Tsunade was coiling the bartender's tie, eyes still ghostly absent. "Oh god, somehow Rin convinced us to go Karaoke _once_ — by the end of the night I was swimming in a fountain and Kakashi had amnesia…" she giggled.

"You hit him over the head with a shovel," Iruka growled, and then cast a disbelieving look at the bartender. "They thought it would be hilarious to unbury a dead body and place it next to the Third Hokage in his bed while he slept."

Tsunade sulked. "We didn't do it tight-ass!"

"Only because you accidently cracked Kakashi's skull and then you spent the rest of the night trying to convince him he was a Russian transsexual prostitute."

Tsunade looked like she was going to disagree but then a dawning look appeared. "Oh yeah!" she broke into an uncontrollable fit of laughter. "I still can't believe he got into that skimpy dress."

"He was delirious and had lost at least two bucket-fills of blood." Iruka was drinking the tea rapidly, missing the look of utter horror in the bartender's face.

Speaking of which, the bartender had almost entirely slipped out of Tsunade's clasp, all she had was the tip of his tie. But then suddenly her eyes glinted up with amusement and she pushed him back against her roughly. "Oh! And this other time we went to the New Years Carnival in Tokyo."

Iruka choked slightly on the last of his tea and casted an apprehensive look Tsunade's way.

Tsunade was openly smiling as though she were still fifteen years old, styled in a colorful kimono and running through throngs of people while holding a foot-long twirled rainbow sugarcane and avoiding the performers hidden beneath traditional dragon costumes, and neatly rowed Geishas fanning themselves underneath roofed miniature shops.

"We jumped onto the bricked roof of the highest temple and watched the firework display at midnight," her voice held a sort of longing before she snapped out of the small trance and her smirk turned rather wicked. "That was the night Jiraiya got a tattoo on his left ass cheek and Orochi an eyebrow piercing, but sensei made him take it off the next day at practice. Also…" Tsunade could have sworn she felt Iruka glaring hot daggers into her back. "I'm pretty sure several people lost their virginity that night."

Iruka slammed down his cup roughly at the same time Tsunade let go of the bartender's tie; both fell down loudly and brutally. Iruka and Tsunade were once again into one of their little gazing wars, but poor Iruka was at a disadvantage, not even the scar across his nose could hide the pinkish blush.

The bartender resurfaced quickly, fixing his collar, before noticing the hostile looks of the same two troublesome costumers. He refilled Iruka's cup before pushing both cups towards their owners slowly — then the glares switched to him. Laughing weakly he walked away to the bachelorette party that was calling him over, by waving several bras in his direction.

"So," Tsunade broke the eye contact, taking the damp leaf off the top of the tea's surface and brushing it against her lips. "Did it hurt? I never asked. I was so insensitive back then…"

Iruka snatched his second cup of tea and began gulping it down to refrain from answering and from doing something he would later regret greatly.

"But you know what doesn't hurt…dying from a tragic heart attack." The comment was random, even for the feisty blonde. "To just leave this world softly in your sleep." She bit off the tip of the leaf, her eyes murky with some indescribable emotion.

"What are you getting at Tsunade?" Iruka was massaging his temple, hunched once again.

"You didn't hear? But it was all over the news." Tsunade faked shock. "Akira Shiroi, the entrepreneur who owns half of Tokyo died suddenly last month — his heart exploded. Very weird condition. And since there was no outer disposition doctors could only call it a severe heart attack. His poor little forty-years-his-senior Lolita of a wife must be crying herself to sleep in his billions."

Iruka watched Tsunade tear the leaf to shreds with the tips of her fingers. "Rumor has it he was one of the investors in some place called…what was it…Hans Kingdom?" her feigning amnesia was nerve-wracking.

She licked her lips. "And you know what else has always fascinated me till this day? Did you hear about Fumio Goro, the mafia boss?" Iruka didn't even pretend to know who she was talking about. "The man was a legend, mainly because he was fucking terrified of dying. Was always surrounded by at least fifty bodyguards, all cars bullet proof, house had an earthquake shelter; even steal walls would barricade his mansion with just the simple push of a button. And then he meets his end in such a bizarre yet _natural_ way…"

Tsunade blinked sweetly and Iruka narrowed his eyes, ugh, she was going to make him say it.

"What happened?" was his flat question.

"Simultaneous Combustion." Tsunade piped enthusiastically. "That's when your body burns from the inside out, happens at random, and it's the only way to explain his death. I mean, he was locked in his study for just five minutes and they find nothing intact but his feet inside his leather boots underneath his loveseat, his ashes on the cushions."

Iruka felt something cold creep up his spine, the way this conversation was switching to such a psychotic topic. Hopefully Tsunade was just reaching the climax of her tipsiness, but he knew she wasn't.

"Who is it?" Iruka's question this time held contained curiosity.

"The twins are contract assassins." The firmness of her voice made Iruka think twice about whether or not she was in fact intoxicated. "You might know some of their work, just Google 'famous assassinations in the past decade'. You can file them under the prime minister and that crazy Hajime guy, you know, the peace activist. I think they also offed Noboru, the Chinese crime boss and Yasushi, director of the Ministry of Defense."

"The twins?" Iruka echoed, watching Tsunade retrieve the last three digits from her right hand transforming it into a gun; she was aiming at her own reflection, one eye closed.

"Ying and yang…they see you…"

.

-x-

.

The cliff-side mansion was Victorian-styled. A castle like structure hundreds of feet above the dark ocean, yet the sound of the violent waves crashing against the jagged rocks was still a ghostly dull roar that echoed through the high ceilinged, lavish suites in the eighteenth-century chic décor.

The ballroom was breathtaking: two stories in height (allowing two spiral stone staircases to swerve on opposite corners) and easily the length of a playing field.

The walls were pure crystal, presenting the panoramic view of the city in the northern side, although from this altitude it resembled a plastic metropolis in a snowglobe. The other walls showed the thickness of wild forestry.

Long red curtains were curled above the windows and everywhere lay matching red table-clothed round tables with tall piece decorations and expensive china sets. Like a childish indulgence, balloons filled many portions of the marble floor and a hill top of presents clustered in a corner of the spherical room. For the special occasion an orchestra was playing on a wide stage in the center – the lead singer snapping his fingers to the saxophone melody and singing over a disco-carved microphone. All other instruments glimmered underneath the gigantic hand-blown chandelier in the center of the hand painted canvas in the ceiling.

Guests intermingled and introduced themselves, all in designer suits and elaborately-stitched gowns, necks frosted with diamonds, hands with luxurious rings. An air of confidence sealed the scene.

The guest of honor held an iced bottle of champagne, patting an associate on the back in agreement. But his smile was fading, something felt out of place in the scene. Perhaps it was that stench, that strong odor invading his nostrils…

So familiar, yet he couldn't quite place it.

"…Mr. Masashi…" he felt a light poke on his cheek, and jumped back in surprise. Had no one just seen that? Had a ghost just pinched his cheek? "Mr. Masashi, please wake up." Called a girlish, soft voice.

And then the world tilted, and he was now sitting, his legs in front of him. And he noticed that he was opening his eyes and that everything had only been a dream. Before him stood a very appealing young woman, her head tilted in curiosity, hands on her hips and leaning forward on the balls of her feet. She was smiling happily, eyes glittering when he finally opened his own completely.

"Sleepy?" she asked, blinking repeatedly. "Gosh, what a day to do so."

Masashi was confused — he'd never seen this girl before in any of his dreams. He wanted to touch her face, feel if she was real. It was not till now that he noticed something restraining his arms, binding them in back of him. Immediately he looked around in panic, what was…

But the next second he was fighting for breath when the girl in front of him hurled a bucket of water onto his body, soaking him. He coughed out frantically, frightened that this feeling of cold felt so real. He was ready to scream aggression at this dream schoolgirl when his nose finally identified the smell in the air…and he realized that he wasn't soaking in water.

He was drenched in gasoline.

"I hope that suit wasn't expensive." The girl bit her lower lip, scrunching her nose while she threw the bucket aside easily. She clapped her hands in front of her face in excitement. "So, you ready for your wish?"

Masashi shook his head, trying to clear his eyes from dripping bangs. And then he looked around the room and every muscle in his body cringed into involuntary stillness.

The red curtains were ripped…the windows' glass laid on the marble floor in pea-sized pieces…the tables were toppled over…plates, balloons, and utensils were scattered around carelessly in bits…there was no music…

The ball guests rested soundlessly on the floor, bodies contorted in careless manners. All coveted in blood…

Masashi took a deep intake of breath, and held it, afraid to let go. Tears slid down his cheeks, one after the other after the other.

"Don't cry. It's your birthday!" the dream girl encouraged, twirling in her boarding school uniform of gothic modish. "Besides, you still have company."

Masashi turned, still tongue-tied, and finally noticed just what he was tied to. Behind him was his wife, visibly shaking, face flushed with running makeup. Masashi wondered just how long he'd been out cold, how long she had to suffer looking at their dead friends in piles.

"Why are you doing this you sick monsters!" she screeched hoarsely, and for the first time the schoolgirl's smile faded. The girl looked to her right side, with a teasingly-pained expression that read _you really shouldn't have said that_. Masashi followed her gaze, which landed right on a second individual, this one male, who was leaning over his pool table holding a cue stick and analyzing which cue ball to hit next.

"Do you want to lose your tongue privileges?" his tone wasn't mocking, just cold, and chillingly dark.

His wife stiffened immediately, hiding her head in his shoulder. She bit her tongue in fear that it might just be ripped out as promised.

"P…please…" Masashi croaked, swallowing with difficulty. "I have money — I'll pay you anything! Please just — oh god — please don't kill us!"

The schoolgirl was tapping a finger to her mouth in contemplation. "How many guests did you have here today?" and then she disappeared. The next time they heard her voice it was from above and Masashi had to crane his neck up to watch the girl, now on his massive chandelier, put a hand over her eyes and lean forward while standing with only one foot on the ledge and look around the room. "Two hundred?" she puzzled.

"Three hundred and sixty two." The boy across the room answered, taking a shot.

Six balls met their home instantly.

The girl looked down at Masashi, shaking her head in disbelief. "And you killed them all…that's just awfully sad. And on your birthday too."

Masashi didn't understand, and he truly wanted to. He didn't kill anyone! Did he?

"Please! I have a lot of money!" He repeated with desperation.

"We heard you the first time," was the cold reply from across the room. The boy had jumped on the table and was twirling the cue, obviously bored. He was also dressed in a school-like uniform: long sleeve collared shirt, black baggy pants. "Let's go — this is lethargically dull."

The schoolgirl was already down, and kicking more buckets of fair gasoline over. Masashi could hear his wife's loud whimpers beside his ear. But he couldn't plea; he had no idea what to say anymore. And then she was in front of him again, the same angelic smile plastered on her face. "I got you a present. You see I felt horrible that we destroyed your cake."

"…among several other things." The boy was already walking toward the torn windows.

"So! I got you this!" Where she took out that cupcake he had no idea. It was pink frosted, sprinkled lightly, and had a small little candle in the center — the little flame swayed slightly from the breeze coming in through the cracked windowpanes.

It was made of ice cream. And even though he was doused in gasoline he knew that the heater of the room was turned on at full power, and as she placed the cupcake on the gasoline soaked marble floor before him, he couldn't help but follow her every movement with horrified care.

"…n…no…" He choked out, his muscles regaining their strength as he fought against the ropes. "No! Please no!"

She was skipping away blissfully, in the direction the boy had already disappeared. She stopped and turned one last time right outside the window. "Make a wish Masashi…blow out your candle…"

And then she was gone as well.

Masashi fell forward, pleading to his wife to help him crawl but she had already fainted. So he slowly tried to swivel towards the cupcake, which was merely feet away, his wife's weight crushing him…

_Blow out the candle Masashi, blow out your candle and make a wish!_

The boy did not look back at the mansion; already yards away and in the end of the clearing, in front of him stood the opening of the forest. Suddenly he heard rapid footsteps from in back, but he knew that pace oh too well to worry. The schoolgirl jumped on top of his back, and he automatically placed his hands underneath her, supporting her weight.

He hadn't gotten two paces when she asked. "Do you think he got his wish?"

And then the mansion burst into flames, illuminating the clearing like a lit candle.

"Depends what he wished for…" the boy answered, walking away slowly, feeling the schoolgirl rest her cheek on his shoulder and sigh in peace.

.

-x-

.

Iruka was bleeding.

The paleness of his face was identical to the washed-fading of the black-and-white ripped newspaper article in his cold hands. From afar two bodies could be seen still hunched onto the oak counter, the stools so close now that the shoulders of the only two customers touched. One of Iruka's fingertips stained the side of the badly cut sharp page. But the paper cut remained painless, unnoticed, while his eyes registered the information on the news piece. Starting with the illusive headline…

Three Hundred and Sixty Four Killed in Tragic Fire

He was scratching the only crime scene photograph pasted on the top with his thumb nail, but the bitterly black remains of the mansion would not grow fainter. And even though mounds of thick snow drafted on the heaps of useless wooden scrap — the scene was everything but beautiful.

"That's the wonderful thing about the twins," Tsunade's voice resembled a muffled whisper, since her head was long hidden in her crossed arms, eyes closed as she rested momentarily. "They don't care how many people they have to kill to get to their target."

Iruka crumbled the paper in his hands heatedly, mind clouded with too many conflicting thoughts. "They sound charming."

Tsunade looked up, scanning the bar shelves for something much more potent than sake. "Though, three hundred sixty three is a tad severe, the client must have ordered the premium package." Her tone held no interest, as though she were discussing the weather. "That arrangement usually involves the cause of excessive mental distress before actual termination."

Iruka threw the crushed paper into the empty bar area, casting a disbelieving glance at Tsunade. "What the hell did that poor man do to deserve that?" he blurted out furiously, unable to contain his emotions.

Tsunade returned the glare with her glossy, cynical stare. "Whoever said it was about _Mr_. Masashi?"

Iruka flinched, taken aback by the shift of conversation. "But…but she said it was his fault…"

Tsunade rolled her eyes, dipping a finger into her glass and rotating the dice inside. "They just adore playing mind games, with anyone who's gullible enough to fall into them." She grimaced. "His poor feeble wife, you probably thought, falling victim to her husband's crimes. I guess I should have mentioned she's been secretly selling weapons of mass destruction to imperialist terrorists in the south. Sorry — slipped my mind."

"…So…he really was innocent." Iruka was gaping openly, teeth clenched.

"So were three hundred and sixty two others. But we've all done something we deserve to die for Iruka, I know I have." She wasn't blinking, and he thought that for a second he saw the reflection of a man crawling through debris, his body on fire, in her pupils. "Besides, this was all an accident. By the time they noticed the gas leak it was already too late…you read the article…such a horrible, horrible _accident_."

Iruka's mind was racing for an answer. "Poisonous gas?"

"…Has marvelous effects." Tsunade cut in. "Have you ever seen someone who's forced to breathe it in? I have, it's sort of like a seizure only blood is splurging out of all possibly places: your nose, your mouth, your ears, and all you can do is twitch…as though you've just had a circuit break."

Lucky for the Masashi duo that they were destined for a different death, whether worse or far kinder, that is left to the individual to choose…

This was one of the only moments in his life when Iruka had truly been speechless, where he knew what the next words out of his mouth should be yet they seemed out of his grasp, appearing and disappearing before he'd get the chance to decipher them.

"Royksopp. It's an underground club in Sola." Tsunade muttered, while sliding the glass on the counter from hand to hand. "Rumor has it that they're there to meet some Razors to get employed for a very special job."

Iruka was cracking his fingers, shoulders slumped much further now, as though a new frictional weight had been dropped onto his body.

"You're bleeding…" She whispered. And then his hand was in hers, her fingers examining the small cut, brushing the surface. Iruka didn't know what it was, the fact that he was slightly intoxicated, or the gentle clash of their skins, but he felt a jolt of uncontainable excitement, a soft rush of euphoria.

She placed his finger into her mouth, her tongue delicately rotating around the itching cut. Iruka couldn't help but admire her features as the beauty of destruction before him thoughtfully licked his finger clean.

His finger slipped out of her mouth slowly, but instead of letting go she brushed the tip against her lips, eyes closed. "I'd hurry if I were you, before Neji and Tenten get hired to decapitate Ino." Her tone was harsh, almost vindictive.

Not that that was going to be an easy feat, even for such skilled assassins, that she knew.

When she opened her eyes she found Iruka's face inches from hers, skewed, eyes ambiguous and lost. He was leaning down slowly, closing the gap between them.

She tilted her face at the last second, his lips meeting her flawless cheek. "Don't." she whispered, feeling his nose trailing down her jawbone. She turned completely, escaping his grasp, and was rummaging through that stuffy purse of hers in buttery brown again.

Iruka felt quite ridiculous, but this time there was no visible sign of this on his face. He decided to turn back to his drink, to occupy the awkward silence by filling yet another glass to smother reality, but all eight bottles before him were already empty, piled together, creating a sort of rainbow pattern.

"I think I can actually find a positive in this situation." He finally said, looking around to motion the bartender that more liquor was needed. Was that him crawling under those tables?

Tsunade was cursing quietly, obviously having difficulty finding the desired object. "Do share."

"After the massacre twins…we can only go up from there."

Tsunade looked back at him, biting her lip. "Perhaps we should continue another day."

Iruka groaned. Why the hell did he have to jinx it?

"I think my heart can take it; my liver as well." He jumped off his stool and walked around the counter, grabbing a new bottle off a bottom shelf. Since the bartender was busy playing Hide and Seek (more like Hide and Don't-Get-Raped) he was going to have to serve himself.

By the time he arrived back to his seat there was another glossy pile in front of it — almost the same size as Ino's records, give or take three-fourths of an inch.

"Promising." He admitted, though he was still incredulous that this person could possibly beat the psychotic-level of the previous subjects.

"You have no idea." Tsunade replied, looking away. Iruka wondered if she felt slightly embarrassed (but with Tsunade that should never even be considered a possibility) or if something else was brooding beneath the obvious.

This time he needed no pep-talks. He opened the first folder swiftly and came face to face with Number Five of his list — she was wearing a bonnet, large glasses, and had a long braid on the side of her face. "New look?"

"…sure…" Tsunade was resting her head in her arms again, but he could have sworn her voice was — amused?

Iruka scanned the bottom but there was no written information to follow the picture, odd. Nevertheless he merely put that folder aside and picked up the next. The same face stared back at him, only this time there was a mass of red hair styled in a wild eighties perm, the eyes were a different color, and the person had lost at least thirty pounds. "…when was this one taken from the previous one?"

"They're sorted out by weeks: week one — week two — week three — week four — month one completed. Week one — week two…" her voice faded off.

Iruka quickly turned to look at Tsunade, but her face was still hidden. Something was definitely not right here.

He picked up the third folder with anticipation. The same face, the hair was now pixie-short, charcoal black, teeth visible through a wide grin — white, sharp, almost too sharp?

Narrowing his eyes he rummaged through the files with as much courtesy and grace as Tsunade with her bag. Almost the entire pile was just different pictures, all different identification registered under different names. "So she's an identity thief?" Iruka asked, unimpressed.

Tsunade snorted.

Iruka shot her a glare, and nearly staggered backwards. She had already finished the bottle he'd placed down!

"Then what are all of these different IDs?" he flipped a page, finding a new assortment. "And arrests?"

Tsunade looked up, clearing her throat, her voice then dropped to barely above a whisper. "She might, ah, suffer from a personality disorder…"

"**A****what?!****"**

"…a severe multiple personality disorder, you know, but honestly, who really knows who they are," Tsunade shrugged before shooting her hand in the air, waving her empty glass. "Who does a ninja have to kill to get a drink around here?"

One of Iruka's eyes was twitching. "Are you telling me she switches personalities per week?"

"Per week, per day, per year, per whenever the fuck she wants." Tsunade smiled dreamily, that last bottle had been the killer shot.

Iruka grabbed one of the reports with balled fists, eyes reading madly fast. "_Arrested on the ninth of March for smashing a civilian's hand with a sledge hammer _—_ cursed with a British accent all the way to the police station and then said her name was…Queen Elizabeth…_"

Tsunade broke into hysterical giggles, most 'unlike her character', her hands motioning as though she were weaving invisible water. "Oh yeah! She actually screamed 'peasant, how dare you touch my shoulder?' and then just pulverized the guy, she was yelling for her bodyguards the whole time."

Iruka blinked slowly, not amused. "You were there?"

Tsunade nodded her head rigorously. "Yeah, we were on a double date…or was it a triple? Anyways, the guy she nearly _castrated_…"

Iruka looked down, shocked. Was there some kind of typo on this thing?

"Was the second uncle twice removed brother of my date — or was it second brother twice removed uncle…might have been niece…? Yo bartender!" Tsunade was looking around impatiently.

Iruka turned back to the report, repressing the idea that Tsunade didn't remember her date's gender.

"Favorite color: red, blue, yellow, pink, orange, light-black?" the whole freaking spectrum. "Favorite song: Harder, Better, Faster, Stronger? Signature pose: the bend and reveal…is this a police report or a dating-compatibility sheet?"

Tsunade snatched the paper away, examining it. "Oh sorry, I guess she forgot to turn this in at the registration section."

"So she's pretty much an unstable-alternative esoteric _girl_." Iruka was unsettled, but did not see what this specific individual could 'contribute' (what a term to use!) to the army.

"Oh yeah, she's totally harmless…" Tsunade was snickering, a hand over her lips.

Iruka then asked something that wiped the smile away completely. "What does she do, exactly? Profession wise."

Tsunade smirked weakly, and then leaned forward suggestively, a hand copping his ear playfully. "Did I ever tell you what brilliant eyes you have?"

Iruka narrowed his eyes further. "…what is she Tsunade?"

She dropped her hand, frowning. "I think the real question is: what isn't she?"

.

-x-

.

_Whoever said self-destruction isn't fun has obviously never tried it…_

Six identical faces stared back coldly — hot bright light bulbs surrounded the shattered mirror. Beneath, the yellow roses were in a claw-shaped vase, filled with ice, which rested in the corner of the dark wooden armoire; drawers lay half open or entirely closed, revealing flamboyant hair accessories or hiding small pouches of angel dust. Scattered about were makeup boxes presenting multicolored shades and shadows, dusty brushes and crystal curvy perfumes, or piled necklaces of fake rhinestones and feathery-dyed shawls around lipstick sticks and a sachet of eye contacts.

_Last time I saw you there was a rope around your neck and you were hanging from a rafter in the ceiling…_

Clothing racks piled in the backside of the room, with wardrobes ranging from a glittering, see-through evening dress to a conservative nun uniform. The room wasn't necessarily large, but was wide enough to accommodate several discarded stage lights, a retro-styled loveseat, a cluster of black suitcases, a rusty medium-sized chandelier, and a stand of shelved shoes and purses, while several signed pictures of skimpy-clad women decorated the walls.

The mess was evident: there was a magazine on practically every surface, or a closed makeup bag or an unturned ironer or empty water bottle. It was like the casual dressing room chaos you'd expect to see backstage.

_Do you remember the taste of blood? Mmm…nothing quite like it is there…_

They were moving around the room. And she was the only one that could see them. They were grabbing outfits off the racks and ripping them to pieces, or throwing down the heels and smacking them against the walls, or jumping on the loveseat and spilling water on the floor, or tossing objects at the chandelier trying to make it come crashing down. But one in specific stood beside her, her lips touching her ear, and she was screaming, screaming like she'd never screamed before, like she was trying to scream the life out of herself.

_Lost in the moment again my darling? Oh dark angel, how typical…_

She stood still, trying to ignore the voice, and the screaming in the room, and the crashing of broken glass and tearing fabric. She was sitting in the small, red-cushioned stool in front of the mirror, dressed in an opened kimono robe, underneath her lacy black bra and undergarments were visible. Her skin glittered in the hot lighting; the sparkles on her collarbone however were a dim tint. And then there were cold, slender fingers tracing her jaw, before moving up to her cheeks. Three new figures had appeared, one was busy brushing her hair, with each stroke ripping off a handful — the other had opened a vile of foundation and was pasting her face with white base — the last was putting lipstick on her lips, smudging it horribly and missing the outline.

_Time is shifting. I think it's time we meet again…_

Her arms were by her side, limp. The world was now meditating to fast forward, and through the mirror she could see the bodies suddenly moving too quickly to keep up with. All she knew was that the wallpaper was being shredded and the chandelier was already on the granite floor and her hair looked like a messy pile of knots and her face like a child playing Geisha.

_Do it, you know you want to. Join me. We can do wonders together, pure wonders…_

She closed her eyes; the hairs in her arms were still standing. She could still feel the air around her jerking, hear the sound of moving feet, and feel the pinching in her cheeks and the saliva spluttering on her ear.

_Now. Tell me your name._

When she reopened her eyes the world was entirely different. She was still in the same room, still intact, impeccably untarnished. All the figures taunting her with her own face were gone. Instead, still looking back, were the same six reflections.

There was a loud banging on the dressing room door, and the low thud of applause and laughter could be heard through the walls. "Hani! You're on in five minutes!" the fist pounded on the door loudly. "I sent Telis ten minutes ago to get you, that idiot, he's so fired!" she complained. "Open up!"

Hani blinked slowly, turning to look to the corner where the suitcases laid collected. One of them was unnaturally bulgy; a dark liquid was seeping through the material, while an immobile hand stuck out of the half-closed zipper opening.

Now she remembered why her hair was down and where she had put her hairpins. Oh darn, now they were soiled and those were her favorite needle-point hairpins too.

"Hani!" the female screech was unbearable. "You're on stage in two minutes!"

_Show her that isn't your name. Show her who you truly are._

It was her lips moving, automatically. But no sound would surface, instead the words would echo in her mind. She looked back at the mirror, and tried to piece one reflection from the different sections. She was wearing angel wings with yellow-tinted tips, the black sashes wrapped around her shoulders. Her face was covered in bloody white bandages, with only one eye discernible through the wrap; a safety pin was incrusted in the binding in front of her lips.

She picked up the scissors from the top opened drawer and grabbed her mid-back length hair. Tilting her head she nipped and cut without true notice, intrigued by the strands of pair falling down to the floor lifelessly.

"HANI!" the voice sounded infuriated. "OPEN THE FUCK UP!"

Hani stabbed down the scissor into the armoire, getting up slowly and walking towards the suitcases. With the tip of her big toe she pushed the top side of an unzipped luggage aside, and her eyes gleamed at the sight of the two caliber machine guns.

"HANI! You're up! It's show time!" the voice ordered.

_You heard her…it's show time…_

Hani smirked, draping a machine gun on both shoulders, and slowly walking towards the backstage door.

.

-x-

.

Iruka was flushed; his once pale cheeks had now risen to a crimson peak. He found his fingers trembling uncontrollable while he gripped his drink with a sturdy grasp. He wanted to break the crystal, wanted his flesh to dig into painful revival. Then perhaps the numbing of his lips would cease, because even as he spoke, voice exasperated with disbelief and revolution, he still could not feel his mouth, could not swallow down the taste of blood never flavored by his pallet.

"**A SERIAL KILLER!"**

He did not mean to scream, but the lack of sensation had spread to his throat. He had lost power of his own cords, his own voice, but most importantly, his own self control.

Tsunade was shaking her empty glass, upside down, sulkily. "That's just her latest persona, yes." The illusive twin dices plummeted down towards the oak counter, but she caught them before they reached it, a thoughtful look on her face. "Did you ever hear about the Dark Age Massacre?" she rolled her eyes, gasping mockingly. "Oh what am I saying, little Konoha is literally stuck in the Dark Ages and oblivious to anything else. But if you must know, it was a period of time when many, many people died — gruesomely. Some shot to death in the street, others butchered in community bathrooms, a couple were stabbed to death in brothels, some decapitated, burned, others run over or in one particularly awkward case smashed underneath a falling billboard. Once a faulty wire from an electric post found its way into a filled public pool. Do you know how many people died during that time, Iruka?"

Iruka closed his eyes, that migraine was ripping his brain to pieces once more. "No. I don't." he snarled.

"Fifty-two," Tsunade answered, blinking neutrally as though she'd said '_just_ fifty-two'. "And you know what they all had in common?" Iruka released what she guessed was a growl crossed over with a sneer. "In every single crime scene there was the imprint of a card of a deck somewhere…there are fifty two cards in a deck, excluding the jokers of course. Apparently someone was playing cards with the police and they didn't even know it. Ineptly, the case was never solved — weird isn't it? I mean, in a game of war, the person who has all the cards at the end always win." She was biting her lower lip. "There was this long period of time when nothing happened. People were happy again. And then a new series of massacres broke out, only this time, this new killer seemed to be obsessed with ridding people of their organs. You'd be surprised how many random donations were mailed to the National Organ Donation Center that month. Truly quite remarkable…"

Iruka brought a hand to his mouth, feeling a vile liquid working its way up his throat.

"It helps to hold your breath and put your head between your thighs." Tsunade coached, watching Iruka do just that. "Of course, she wasn't always like that." She snapped her fingers, as though she'd just remembered something. "She was a drug-lord for a while, imported the most unbelievable opium you could ever believe, and she actually held a very promising position as a Geisha once, but then she lost it and started the whole serial killer phase."

Iruka looked up, panting for air, with his eyebrows knitted together above his nose in skepticism. Tsunade spoke of this whole situation as though little Miss Serial Killer were just going through the boy crazy phase of teenage-hood.

Besides, it took no brain surgeon (he hiccupped drily, no organ mentioning please) to figure out that the two serial killers were one of the same. And the 'resting period' was probably a time where the persona had switched to something else.

"Was she ever a contract assassin?" Iruka managed to pose, finally leaning up. Mixing alcohol with gruesome mental images was not a very keen idea.

Tsunade was playing with her ear, while resting her cheek on the counter again. "Yeah…"

"A bounty hunter?"

"Sort of…"

Iruka's eyes widened. "A cage fighter?"

"Does it count if she was intoxicated?" she asked childishly.

"So she's like all of them combined?!" Iruka screamed. He was completely unaware of the annoyed looks the bachelorette party was throwing his way from across the restaurant.

"Pretty much…" Tsunade sang, sighing softly, her cheeks were burning up and not even the cool counter surface could make the blazing heat diminish.

Iruka turned back to glare at the empty bottles in front of him. "How many personalities does she have?"

"I can't necessarily keep count," Tsunade spat, slightly annoyed. "Sometimes she disappears for months at a time. I doubt she even knows herself."

Iruka tapped his fingers impatiently against the counter. "But we're talking in what digital sense here? Sixties? Seventies?" he pressured.

Tsunade shrugged. "…hundreds…perhaps even three hundred and sixty two."

Iruka glared. "That's not funny."

"I'm not laughing." She frowned.

Iruka looked up, sighing loudly. This new subject was going to be more trouble than he could have ever anticipated or dreaded.

"Is she controllable?"

"Please," Tsunade snorted angrily. "You and I both know none of them are."

Iruka knew that was true, hell, concrete fact. But what truly unnerved him was that this specific person had such a perverse nature. She wasn't killing for money or pride or loyalty — but for pure enjoyment…

"Where can I find her?" Iruka looked back at Tsunade, and found her sitting erectly for once, arms crossed, and eyes sadly squinted. She seemed to be debating over something.

"Last time I saw Temari she was soaking wet, walking in the middle of the road…in nothing but a bloody bathrobe." She whispered softly.

Iruka had never seen Tsunade so contemplative before, lost in such unfathomable sadness.

"I talked to her but it was like carrying conversation with a wall. She looked like a doll that had lost the only pair of batteries that would ever make it work properly."

Iruka suddenly felt that there was so much more to this story, so much which was being kept a secret or smothered beneath bloody crimes. Perhaps even in the other accounts as well. But there was only one way to truly know, to test this theory, and that was to get under Tsunade's skin, a very dangerous move indeed.

"She's a monster." He stated with fake coldness, watching readily for a response.

"She's a child!" Tsunade quickly blurted, and for a whiff of a second Iruka saw livid tears in her eyes which smoldered swiftly.

"…you protected her." He realized, continuing in a soft voice.

"But you're always your worst enemy. It's impossible to shield you from your own mind. She was normal, as normal as you can get in that condition, for about a month." She shrugged, fiddling with her own fingers. "I convinced her to join some insipid dating service with me one night when I got excessive high…okay we both were." She confessed, rolling her eyes.

Iruka was captured in the moment, blurred in uncertainty. "What happened?"

"She killed people, scribbled on the wall with their blood…"

Iruka gulped down a strange knot in his throat, that bloody flavor was springing again. "…where?"

Tsunade suddenly looked down, awakening from her murky trance. Regret was evident in her features. "I think we can move on, you know enough." She finished.

"I know nothing." He argued.

He would not allow this subject to rest. Just how unstable were these 'soldiers'? Just how insane did you have to be to participate in this war?

"You know what you need to know." Tsunade managed through clenched teeth, throwing him a discerning glare.

"But not what I _should_ know — right?"

"Stop it." She warned quietly. "Sometimes it's good to forget who you are. Even necessary. God, I wish I could do that."

Iruka matched her defiant stare. "You care about her."

Tsunade was slightly taken aback by his words and seemed to struggle for an answer. "She's different…" Tsunade put a hand to her burning throat, feeling the fiery temperature with her palm. "She can't help it."

Iruka narrowed his eyes, a new heat radiating through him. "It's called 'drop the knife'!"

"It's called 'drop the subject'!"

"Here you go." The bartender dropped two new filled glasses in front of them, a smile plastered on his face.

He regretted this action greatly just two seconds later, when murderous glares were turned in his direction. His smile slipped into a nervous grin, while he shuffled a hand through his messy locks. "Okay…well…if you need me I'll be under that table over there." He offered.

Tsunade watched the bartender literally slide down and crawl toward the pointed table, meanwhile the bachelorette crew had gathered on their chairs and seemed to be looking around for something they'd misplaced — or had run away…

She heard a loud tapping noise beside her and turned to see Iruka banging his head against the counter, consecutively. She grabbed the new drink, and raised an eyebrow. "What are you doing?" she asked cautiously.

"Trying to wake up."

She reached over and grabbed his drink as well. "Well, good luck with that…" she sipped slowly, rather enjoying the new show. An idea sprang, and she wondered if Iruka would take the bait. "You truly have changed…"

He looked up, pointing an accusing finger her way. "Here we go. If you start with the whole retarded butterfly bullshit again, I am out of here!"

He was on her plate, fried, and beside a nice heap of onions in her eyes.

The corners of her mouth twitched but she tried to hide her smirk by taking a long drink. Iruka looked down for his own glass but found it in her unbreakable clasp. Fine, drink it all you unmanageable riot…

"You never told me where to find her." Iruka reminded, leaning back against the backrest.

Their haughty conversation had truly drifted them from the original point.

"Chances are she'll approach you, these days she's as well informed as I am." Tsunade pushed her empty glass aside and brought Iruka's up to soothe her cheek.

The mentioning of chance provoked him to look at the clock, eleven o'clock precisely.

"I'm actually intrigued," his sarcasm was almost pained. "Who follows the crack queen of unstable hormones?"

Tsunade moved the glass to rest on her other cheek, smiling sweetly. "Do you like scary stories?"

"I'm in one." His tone was dead serious.

"You'll like number six, he's slightly calmer." Tsunade began. "So calm that chances are he hasn't spoken in over a year to another human being. If at all."

"I like him already." Iruka was looking around for the bartender; he found him but the guy was apparently in the midst of some practice drill — stop, drop, and roll?

Tsunade cleared her throat, rotating her shoulders as though working out kinks, and the next time she spoke her voice seemed to be imitating an elderly fortuneteller. "He is the ruler of armies of demons and the dead…"

Iruka looked heavenward. "Stop that. And spare me the fairytales."

Tsunade glared; annoyed that he'd broken her fun so quickly. "The kid collects demons and turns them into dolls, can you say Pinocchio?"

"Pinocchio."

"…we need to work on your people skills."

"Coordinates."

Tsunade blinked. "Six feet underground — Gobi Desert — probably visiting his great forefather Lucifer."

"Tsunade," Iruka snatched the drink out of her hand, tired of her playful managing.

"Fine, fine!" Tsunade grabbed the other end of her being-dragged-away glass, the tips of their fingers touched. "Can't help but tweak the legends a little. Last I heard, Gaara was tracking down some demonic beast in Akai. Maybe if you start your journey tomorrow you might catch him in time to eat the remainder of the demon's carcass."

Iruka let go of the drink and watched her take it speedily. "Hilarious."

She rolled her eyes. "Don't blame me for your poor sense of humor."

She was reaching for an empty glass now, and had taken those illusive twin dices out again before dipping them into the filled drink. Iruka wanted to know just what she was accomplishing by placing those inside every drink she'd downed, but with Tsunade sometimes it was better not to ask, as previously proven.

Besides, at the moment he was in the midst of a new unraveling ambiguity. Tsunade had failed to entertain him with another 'corky' tale of just what he was getting himself into. Did she really know that little about Gaara? Or did she know too much and was afraid of what might slip during her mental state?

He looked at his reflection, and found that Tsunade was looking at him, a meaningful expression on her face; a sort of scolding gaze. He felt like a small child looking into the face of a grownup who knew every excruciating detail of his grand master-plan prank.

Regrettably he broke the eye contact this time. Undeclared had been her response: don't ask, I won't answer.

Well, that added to the failures of the day.

"Lucky number seven?" He wondered aloud, and felt Tsunade immediately stiffen beside him. Something that hadn't happened throughout their entire reunion.

The dices were suddenly in her alcohol damp hands, and she was shaking her palms. She let go about a foot above the counter and they hurdled down toward it, landing roughly, twirling…

…snake eyes…

Iruka's confused expression only intensified as he noticed that Tsunade's rustic bangs were covering her light brown eyes, a very serious frown on her face. Her arm was sliding toward her bag and Iruka prepared for the clutter and disorder that would surely follow. Surprisingly, however, her fingers slithered through a small pocket in the front and resurfaced with what seemed like a small white envelope.

Without a single word or glance in his direction she handed him the new paper.

Iruka grabbed it rigidly, baffled by how quickly Tsunade's smile had disappeared and how the cold aura around her had built to solid ice. She seemed to be cautiously entrapped in a transformed barrier, wanting no association with what was happening at this very second — a feeling that he had felt mildly when dealing with Ino, but that was a mere ant bite cold compared to this freezing storm.

He peeled the paper carefully until his eyes once again stared down into a photograph.

He could feel his heart pounding wildly in his chest, and for a second he thought his ribcage might just collapse — might break into a thousand pieces while his heart continued on like a rabid locomotive.

The girl in the picture was frailty in life, snow-white pale, lilac veins observable. She was scarcely ninety-pounds and was wrapped in a bundle of white sheets on a flat bed. She looked broken. Like a puppet whose strings had been cut while several hundred feet above the ground. Wires and needles were attached to every visible inch of skin, while a wide breathing restraint clasped over her nose and mouth. Beside her bed was the smallest and weakest heartbeat line Iruka had ever seen on a heart monitor…

His lips parted, eyes forgetting to blink. "What happened to her?"

"Nothing." Tsunade's voice was flat, void of emotion. But her head was sinking down towards the counter again, body hunched at an uncomfortable angle.

Iruka was confused beyond belief. "_Nothing_?" he strained irritably.

She didn't respond. Something about her lack of reaction was alarming Iruka. He wanted to pursue the subject, but decided to drop it temporarily. Neither of them wanted to arouse another argument were neither would end up victorious. "Where can I find her then?" he questioned alternatively.

"I already spoke to her. She's not interested." Tsunade said firmly, jaw clenched.

"You _spoke_ to her?" Iruka blinked repeatedly now, as though trying to use all previously forgotten blinks.

"The photograph you see before you merely shows one of her monthly tantrums, it's truly quite exquisite watching someone shut their entire body down. Heartbeats to a mellow thirty per minute, blood flow frozen in iced veins, pupils gone _completely_…" Tsunade's thin nails were busy tipping over the dices.

Iruka could not decipher the coldness in her tone. Had she just called such a cruel existence a tantrum?

"I think it's her little sick twist of hibernation." She looked up; eyebrows furrowed furiously, voice tainted with sarcasm.

Iruka glanced down at the picture again, not wishing to be caught in the wrath of her gaze. "How long has she been in this state?"

"Who the fuck cares…" came the dark mutter. "Let her lavish in her little coma state, before being reborn with her little insatiable thirst." Tsunade's gasp was almost inaudible, but Iruka was too close not to hear it — she had forgotten his presence once more, and had gone on one of her little rambles.

The damage was irrevocable.

But Iruka decided to ignore all of this; he was interested in pursuing something else. Something that he knew Tsunade wished not to give away and would put all her effort into not accidently spilling.

Iruka narrowed his eyes. "If the Hokage chose her then we need her…"

"The Hokage has no idea what he's getting into with that one." Tsunade interjected.

Iruka was distraught. Should he heed Tsunade's warnings or follow the Hokage's concrete orders? In addition, if Tsunade, a woman apparently in familiar terms with a serial killer, did not wish to associate herself with Hinata, what exactly did that mean?

"How did the Hokage even contact you?" Iruka suddenly inquired, perhaps switching the subject again might muddle her thoughts.

A small smile graced her lips. "God, you honestly think that the sun shines out of that man's ass. He came to see me a couple of days back. When you thought he was locked in the prayer temple for like six days, right?"

Iruka gaped slightly and then looked away acidly.

"Well, it only takes the old guy about a day to get to this place and the rest, I guess, he spent trying to track me down. He asked me to gather the necessary _locations_," Iruka leaned forward at the word. "And a general description of each contestant's…mental capacity… and then report back to his appointee."

"If he asked for Hinata along with the rest there must be a reason." Iruka pressed.

Tsunade stayed silent, one of her fingers now slowly tracing circles on the top of her glass. She was almost in the exact same position he had found her this morning. Perhaps she had been debating about whether or not she should leave when he had showed up, deleting that option.

"Perhaps if I talk to her she'll change her mind." He continued.

Tsunade snickered, rolling her eyes. "Yeah, that's likely."

"I can be very persuasive." Iruka sniffed arrogantly.

"I can be very fucking stubborn." Tsunade countered.

"I can see you're going to be difficult about this." Iruka sighed, banging his fist against the counter. "Well can you at least point me in a direction — west, east, south, _north?_"

She glared back. "Try Hollinsblue Psychiatric Ward."

The words hung in the air like the ghostly reflection of floating flames from the orange lanterns above them.

Iruka opened his mouth to speak but closed it promptly. Something became clear at that moment…something neither of them dared to say aloud…

"Perhaps I can come up with a simple analogy to help you wrap your little head around this idea." Tsunade addressed him with smug prudence. "She's like a virus. A virus you don't know you have until you only have seconds to live."

Iruka turned the picture around, unable to look at it anymore. "War broke them," he said unexpectedly. "Perhaps only war can put them back together."

"Are you speaking of them as a sort of company or of their individual bodies?" Tsunade chuckled darkly, nodding in disbelief. "It's like trying to put a broken mirror back together, when the pieces are already chattered to a dusty grit."

The revelation echoed and thumped in the cave of his eardrums, like the rabid scream of a lost child in the density of the forest.

"How did you even get this photo?" Iruka placed his palm on top of it.

Tsunade stood up abruptly, holding on to her stool for support as her legs wobbled slightly. "You'd be surprised what I can accomplish with a stolen nurse uniform and a rack like mine."

"…you're a true inspiration." Iruka gazed up, suddenly noticing that Tsunade was draping her brown purse around her slender body.

"That means a lot coming from you." She responded, kneeling down and grabbing the dried orange parasol on the floor.

"Where are you going?" Iruka tilted his body in her direction. "You still need to inform me of one more."

"Sorry kiddo, not my jurisdiction. I was merely told to give you the first lucky seven. The last is left to a new contact." Iruka seemed taken aback by her sudden necessary departure. He watched one of her hands drift to his collar, flapping it listlessly. "Poor, poor Iruka requesting guidance from the blind."

"And information from the alcoholically-ill." He shot back mockingly.

"Touchy, how will I survive without my crystal method?" She dug her other hand into her hair, scraping her droopy bangs. "See you around lone soldier. Don't let your army eat your soul…"

He laughed scornfully. "If you control the devil, or in this case, devils, you control the war."

"Only problem is, the devil knows no control." She responded.

"Be kind to the world, my butterfly." He murmured, smirking.

"I gave up flying a long time ago, crawling gets me there faster." She placed the umbrella on her left shoulder.

The bartender skipped to the back of the counter again, panting slightly, and counting a thick roll of dollar bills in his hands while a rather large group of women waved his way and walked out through the oak doors of the old zakaya.

"That would explain your claws." Iruka looked down at her manicured digitals, perfectly kept.

"— allow me to rip anything to shreds with a flick of my finger." She joked, waving her fingers in front of her face.

"Claws, Tsunade, not fingers." Iruka's voice was slightly harsh, and her smile slipped a little.

"Oh we really are sentimental today," she leaned down slowly and kissed him on the cheek, leaving his flesh tenderly warm. She pulled back merely an inch before asking. "When are you going to learn that the good guys never win?"

Iruka's eyes swam with an unknown crave. "When you die."

Her smile was gone now, and she turned rapidly, unable to look him in the eyes. "I died a long time Iruka, a long time ago…"

Iruka watched her walk away, the usual modeled waltz, before rotating back to the counter, where stood a rather annoyed looking bartender. He was wiping an already clean glass, while shaking his head at him. Iruka had the odd thought that he had just mouthed 'you lost your chance'.

Iruka ignored him, but not the new filled glass he had set in front of him. Tsunade was gone, and had left him behind with thoughts of…a chain-smoking bounty hunter…a runaway underground cage fighter without a collar…two contract assassins in white and black lit in the glory of flames…a multiple-personality challenged serial killer roaming the streets…a collector of demons barefoot in the middle of the empty desert…and a dying girl strapped to a bed in sickly health, unstable between life and death: the only person able to inflict true fear in Tsunade's eyes.

They were all about to embark on one of the biggest journeys of their lives.

Tsunade's heels clinked beneath her feet as she neared the front door. She felt like she was walking away from her past all over again.

"Excuse me…" a body suddenly nudged against hers, as a man walking through the door accidently bumped into her form. She stiffened, the thumping of her untamed heart audible even to her own eardrums. His fingertips had brushed against her exposed shoulder blade and for a second his face had stood mere inches from her own. But he had continued walking — and the move had been so smooth — so fluid — that to anyone else it was just a simple, unimportant accident.

But his face was carved into her thoughts, although it had been hidden behind a new dazzling red scarf. She didn't even notice that she hadn't stopped walking until the bright sunlight hit her from above, and she found herself once again in front of that mundane street.

She knew her past was now walking away from her, walking towards the bar, and she really wanted to call out to it. She would give anything to touch those soft white locks again and to feel Kakashi's breath on her cheek.

The same homeless man was still sitting beside the door, still blowing bubbles into the hot air.

But as she watched the distorted reflection of her pondering eyes on the crystal shell of the swaying bubbles, the words that continued repeating in her head after being captured in his gaze came out in a soft, passionate whisper.

"I'd fly for you…" she confessed.

I'd fly _with_ you…

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-x-

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* * *

**AN:** Quick Query: Prior to 'formal introduction', who did you guess each character was?


	5. Memoirs of the Departed

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**Chapter Five**

**Memoirs of the Departed**

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_Show me a __sane__ man and I will cure him for you._

_.Carl Gustav Jung. (Founder of analytical psychology)_

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Superstition was a wishy-washy philosophy nourished by bad karma, the lessons of the stars, old squeaky staircases, and slips into the wrong windows…

Only coincidences traveled in the wind.

Objects believed to be signs were tricky deceptions by our over-active imaginations; invisible puddles null of comprehension. Just like when a withered leaf fluttered upon the unoccupied seat beside him on a park bench — as quick as the last breath of a mockingbird departing alongside a ripped, poisonous rosebud — as frail as shifting bubbles blown into vicinity by a homeless gentleman ignored from existence; signs were nothing but our unconscious interpretation of irony. Subsequent circumstances with the sole purpose of retiring in pills, sleeping under bridges, and mistaking the derogative.

So as he watched the wounded baby butterfly struggling to continue flying, drifting above him in the silent waiting room; he merely closed his eyes and leaned his head back against the wall, while resisting the urge to include the creature and its broken wing in his afternoon nap.

If another individual were to occupy the wide room they would have surely walked (or sprinted) out on first sight of the black butterfly soaring unevenly, especially given the present state of affairs. But Iruka was far too young and old to believe in omens or horoscope symbols. Besides, if he allowed himself to follow such instincts he wouldn't be in these four cold walls to begin with.

With one swift glance he surveyed the darkly-gifted setting.

Every other blood-red chair but his was vacant. The tiled floor was the same muddy grey as the thick fog outside only centered on this facility. Every now and then the florescent lights above would flicker, aroused by the violent snowstorm that according to local weather newscasters had appeared out of _nowhere_. Sprinkling the detail that he was in a reception area between two narrow hallways that seemed endless; in which a dying butterfly of velvety black had accidently imprisoned itself into and the predicted conclusion of this short story wasn't going to be all _smiles and stars_.

Then, of course, there was the lovely nurse behind the cluttered secretary desk in the corner; head tilted in thought and chewing her bottom lip while reading _Seven Easy Steps: To Seem Like You Know What You Are Talking About_. He thanked all spiritual entities in every conceivable religion on the face of the earth for not being treated in this sanatorium.

The ceiling would provokingly purr whenever a wave of hail struck the horizon, making his seat vibrate for a milli-earthquake-second. His rational judgment assured him such an action was the cause of being on the tenth floor of such a tall, tower-like edifice. As for the shadow on the ceiling as well, it was merely an effect of the inconsistent lighting, which made it seem like someone was walking upside-down on it. As a positive, the nurse was at least not reading something along the lines of _Hannibal Rising_: that would have been a bit too much. Though the opera music playing from the static-struck radio on her file infested desk and the fact that this level seemed to contain no windows whatsoever pretty much erased all sense of comfort. So, just for the hell of it, Iruka sat on the thirteen seat.

This room was a scary movie waiting to happen…

Speaking of ironic twists, 'unprecedented omen' in the form of a flaky, one-winged critter just found its way into the ventilation shaft. Happy travels flying one-inch heart attack.

Consequently, the second the destiny(less) butterfly disappeared from view the swing-through doors opposite himself burst open. He almost suffered whiplash from how quickly his head turned towards the screeching noise. He expected his eyes to have to adjust to some blinding light emitting through the creak between the two doors, but the rooms beyond were apparently just as dark and depressing.

His previous anticipations of lab-coat styled doctors reinforced by bouncer type nurses, with loud orders being bellowed at trembling nurses for sterilized needles and high doses of sedative drugs were fading, rapidly.

The slim woman that emerged at least had a white cloak though, but she looked beyond furious as she walked towards the main desk while not taking her eyes off an opened folder in her hands. Her high stilettos didn't falter for an instant and she walked a perfect straight line until she was in front of the clueless secretary. Iruka wouldn't have been surprised if the doctor pulled back her hand and slapped the flimsy girl; from the older woman's heated features the younger had to at least be sleeping with her husband.

"_Suki!"_ The (supposed) doctor closed the file in her hands with trembling fists, before slamming it against the desk. Causing several stacks of paper to come crumbling to the floor and for the new receptionist nurse to jerk upright.

"Y-yes, Dr. Norah?" Suki stuttered, quickly placing the self-help novel on her lap and out of view.

"Can you please," Dr. Norah began in a poorly controlled voice. "Tell Dr. **Siege**…"

"You mean Dr. Sledge." The nurse interrupted with confidence, but then released a high-pitched squeal when the death glare that had been directed heavenward before was turned on her by Dr. Norah. Her eyes were narrowed in disgust, since Suki had practically purred the other doctor's name. Apparently the male doctor had been at the top of the young nurse's _Goals-To-Achieve-In-Life_ list for some time now.

"Lay off the romance novels Suki." Dr. Norah ordered, tapping her fingers on the only small fraction of Suki's desk that wasn't cluttered with some assignment she had failed to do. "Just tell the bastard that it's not my fault he misdiagnosed his patient and gave him Hismanal to treat his urticaria and also Nizoral to treat his fungal infection."

Suki gave her a glossy, lost look.

"I mean what kind of psychiatrist does not know a combination of the two causes cardiac spasms? Sure those brands aren't his variety of work but its pre-med school material. When he consulted with me I believed he was speaking of separate patients. I had no idea his IQ had always been negative ten!" The doctor protested, unaware that Suki's full attention was on the round clock on her desk; while she mentally counted the minutes to the end of her shift. "And furthermore, tell him to stop giving his Dorothy patient Coumadin, though it's a blood thinning drug it can cause serious internal bleeding with high doses of Vitamin E. Which he proscribed a week ago as the solitary vitamin intake."

Suki blinked. "Ah…" she reached for her Hello-Kitty mini-notepad. "Can you say that again?"

Dr. Norah's brow twitched. "Tell Dr. Sledge that it's not my fault…"

"No, no I got that part. I just need everything after urinary infection."

Dr. Norah waited a few seconds to see if Suki was actually serious. After concluding that she was, she rolled her eyes and leaned forward on the desk, snatching the black pen in Suki's breast pocket. "I'll leave him a note. I can only handle so many lawsuits in one day."

She ripped a sticky note off the table and began jam packing her warnings down aggressively, thank god she was using a pen; a pencil would have broken in two after just the first sentence.

Iruka leaned sideways, so that Suki had sight of him once more since the doctor hid him from view. The nurse smiled his way and waved in a ditzy manner, making him sigh in resignation. It was official. She'd totally forgotten why he was there.

Dr. Norah turned, wanting to know what had caught Suki's attention (though it really didn't take much to amuse her). Her eyes landed on the only other human being in the room. "I thought I told you not to bring your boyfriends to work anymore, Suki." Dr. Norah declared, waving a hand at Iruka. "Get out of here kid, this is a mental asylum. I have no time to be filtering out the sane from the unstable. So unless you want me to lock you up in the Retention Dorm with the rest of the crazies, like the last idiot who tried me, run along and go get high in the staircase or something."

Iruka rose quickly from his chair, just pleased that she'd at least noticed him. "Hello, Dr. Norah." He walked forward, his arm extended in greeting. "I'm Naito Sung."

Dr. Norah looked down at his expectant hand as he came frontward, then back up at his face when he reached her. She turned to Suki (who was humoring herself by blowing on the bangs of her hair and watching them drift down), her face demanding an explanation.

Suki beamed, snapping her fingers. "Oh that's right! This is that student who requested a psychological evaluation of one of your patients. He made an appointment weeks ago but I guess I misplaced the basic information when he scheduled via phone." She had started picking up papers and peaking under them in the midst of her sentence.

"Why the hell didn't you tell me?" Dr. Norah groaned, her shoulders slumping. "I would have said I was on vacation."

Iruka's smile fell, along with his arm.

"Sorry…" Suki mumbled apologetically, passing her a new file over the desk. They were both practically ignoring him. He was just about to make a comment when a loud hollow sound struck inside the room. All three turned towards the sound, which was up a wall and coming from inside the air-conditioning vent. Smoke was roaming out in thin puffs, too transparent to truly cause aspiration damage.

"Oh this is just perfect. The heater broke! We can all become nice cold chunks of ice, while I get served with a lawsuit and an unexpected visit from another college prep." Dr. Norah sighed loudly, walking away with the file under the crook of her arm. She didn't even chance a look Iruka's way but he followed nonetheless.

"When are these fucking universities going to stop chopping you guys up by sending you here to analyze our cold fossil?" she asked no one in particular, ignoring the fact that Suki was currently across the room trying to figure out how to use the fire-extinguisher (drama queen…).

Iruka was having trouble keeping pace with the doctor, particularly after they passed the swing doors and entered yet another hallway; only this one had sets of doors on either side with nailed name plaques. They cut several corners in utter silent, but on the fifth Dr. Norah turned, jabbing a menacing finger into his chest when he bumped against her form. "Listen kid, you're here for one reason and one reason only." She warned.

Iruka raised an eyebrow but then flinched, as her sharp nail dug into his flesh again. "One of your professors thinks you need a good kick in the ass and I'm here to deliver it. Well, to deliver you to the deflation of your ego and rock bottom of your sanity." Her voice seemed colder in here, or maybe the reality of the main heater breaking was finally getting to him. With every word she said a minty cold mist was released onto his face, though respectfully he was a foot taller.

Iruka made a mental note to burn Kakashi alive. Although Tsunade had provided the directions, Kakashi had apparently 'taken care' of his appointment necessities. Only God knew what was beyond these dimly-lit hallways and awaiting him.

"Ah…"

She smirked, pleased that she had cornered him to the bottomless vocabulary range of Suki. "So tell me, have you taken philosophy at any time as an extra course during your university scavenging?"

Scavenging? What was he, a parasite?

"Uh…I suppose," Iruka made it up as it came to mind, tugging at the collar of his shirt. How anyone was able to withstand tight jeans and high collared sweaters was beyond him. "A short class for credit necessity. Why? Is it a requirement to work here?"

She shot him a glare that he could have read even if she were moving away on a speeding train: Did you not just meet Suki back there?

"They get more irritable every year." She said loudly to herself with the intention of him to hear. She had begun walking away again, not truly caring if he followed or got lost in these four-intersect hallways.

"_Concepts, like individuals, have their histories and are just as incapable of withstanding the ravages of time, as are individuals. But in and through all this they retain a kind of homesickness for the scenes of their childhood. _Do you know who said that?" she asked in a tone that conspired he probably didn't.

Iruka had yet to spot a single window, which he found distressing, but what was even more unnerving was that he actually did know who'd said such words.

"Soren Kierkegaard?" He gambled, chanting the name of a post-chronic-war scholar Kakashi had quoted regularly in his presence the noon before.

"Good call, cookie for the intern." Dr. Norah clapped, walking deeper into the hallways.

Cookie for Kakashi really, who had unconsciously brainwashed him. Bastard. What else had he sieved into his mind while they chatted over drinks? Iruka was growing increasingly worried.

"Talk dead philosophers and she might just faintly pay awareness to your presence." Dr. Norah said over her shoulder.

Iruka stopped walking, he had never been the best actor but too much was at stake to waste time probing whether his performance was award worthy. "_She_?"

Dr. Norah turned, shoving the file into his chest. He hardly managed to grip it in time, causing many of the papers inside to fall to the floor clumsily. Iruka blamed his cold fingers, though a convincing presentation of 'frightened psychiatrist-aspirer' would do good to not arouse suspicion.

"Poison Ivy." Dr. Norah said when he finally inclined upwards after picking up the mess. "It's her nickname. We usually assign new ones to the patients based on movie or book characters to add a little flare to the job."

"Let's hope it's not fitting." Iruka jested but the doctor only crossed her arms in response.

"I'll leave it at this," Dr. Norah began walking again while staying beside him, keeping a slow tempo of steps. "She earned it."

For some reason or another, the lights which had been miraculously still decided to flicker after her words. But Iruka knew there was no such thing as omens or signs, written destinations or life maps. Yet a strange thought hit him then. How could a black butterfly with a broken wing fly against a consistent artificial wind and into a vent? Could the being truly be the reason for the heater's breakage? A mental picture of the creature consumed in flames raided his mind just then, and the first real cold chill of the break of day clawed at his spine.

"Have you ever met the perfect sociopath?" Dr. Norah asked, her tone darkly sarcastic.

Her words echoed back at them both, the emptiness answering her call. Iruka knew her question was rhetorical, and settled to just examine their surroundings as they journeyed to their destination. Then he caught sight of one of the names on the door plaques.

How naive could he have possibly been? For the past few minutes they had passed names like Hamlet, Oedipus, Chia Pao-yu, Alice in Wonderland, and his personal favorite, Freddy. Yet it never truly occurred to him that on the other side of these doors there were entirely different worlds with entirely different humanitarian rules and laws of nature. Where omens and signs truly did exist and were part of constant existence. In here, it did not matter whether he truly believed or remained atheist of the supernatural. Because in here time and space and reality and even truth held as much carat as a pint of watery mud.

But he knew _she_ wasn't here. This floor was reserved for the most stable patients. These rooms were practically locked suites and nothing else. These people were just hiding from the world, afraid of what they might do, and not of what they had already committed…

"Patient 362676 of Hollinsblue Psychiatric Hospital, in Ward 59 on the seventh floor. Poison Ivy: roughly seventeen years old, 5'4, creepy-ass eyes, the perfect textbook psychopath with a personality disorder marked by _aggressive, violent, anti-social thoughts and behavior and lack of remorse and empathy_." Dr. Norah quoted one of her old university classics by memory.

Iruka tried to ignore the fact that her ID had three sixes in between. He looked at Dr. Norah, intent on learning as much as possible about his 'lucky number seven'.

"We decided to diagnose her with a severe case of dementia since two of her brain functions are significantly impaired. One is her memory and the other is her cognitive skills — her reasoning and judgment are beyond repair." Dr. Norah continued, noticing the fascination in Iruka's eyes. By the end of the day those gleaming pupils would be smothered to a darker grey than the tiled floor. "Which specific type is still unconfirmed. One certainty however is that she tends to suffer from hallucinations."

"What does she see?" Iruka asked, unable to stop himself from glancing at another ventilation shaft above them as they passed it. Did he just see something fluttering inside?

"Depends what day of the week it is. Mondays is usually 'there's no gravity on earth' day and Wednesdays are 'rainbow slugs are crawling into my mouth'. But mostly, according to her she sees ghosts, spirits of the dead that have transformed into demons. Every once in a while she accuses one of the other patients of being possessed and we need to put her in solitary confinement. We learned that one the hard way."

Iruka gave her a concerned look. "Did she kill the patient?"

"Almost. She slit the woman's wrist in the shower with a plastic fork that only God knows where the hell she got. Either way, during her hallucination attacks she usually only afflicts damage upon herself. The walls, the floor – anything is a weapon to end her life." Dr. Norah continued in a casual tone, as though she was extremely tired of having this conversation.

Iruka opened the file he had forgotten he still had in his hands and began reading, multitasking came surprisingly easy. The information was impossibly to comprehend, the terms used were no shorter than thirteen letters per and pie charts, surveys, and graphs took up most of the pages.

"She's been checked for everything. From Alzheimer's to tumors, even thyroid disease. Anything that can unbalance a brain from functioning properly. So since she was in perfect condition we concluded this psychological trauma of outcaste memories and inability to remember her past has to deal with a disturbed childhood."

"Was?" Iruka pressed, not understanding.

"Humor me by allowing me to finish." Dr. Norah said curtly; she was a no nonsense woman. "She's received high doses of our most effective medication but nothing is helping her condition. If anything it's worsening. Either way treatment is at a still at the moment."

"Why is that?" Iruka looked into the doctor's eyes, but for a second from the corner of his he could have sworn he saw something floating in midair. But it was probably just his shadow. These hallways were as coiled as a labyrinth; claustrophobia was more than a faint possibility for his uncertainty.

"She overdosed. Attempted suicide." Dr. Norah stifled a yawn with the back of her palm making Iruka blink in confusion.

"How is that possible?" He asked, irritated by her lack of concern.

"Somehow she managed to fool us into thinking that she was taking her medication when she wasn't. A great performance truly. She memorized what each medication was for and what her outward actions should be after intake. Then one day she took nine pills at a time. She fell into a coma state, toxicity levels off the chart, suffered two strokes and became completely brain dead for about five days. Then one day: wakes up and everything is just peachy." Dr. Norah's voice held discontentment, as though having this discussion was like having a bowl of construction nails for breakfast.

Iruka received the same aggravated vibe from Tsunade. Was this her long lost sister?

"Has this happened before?" Iruka questioned, afraid of what her answer might be.

Finally. They reached the dead-end of the stream of hallways which just so happened to be a deserted lobby with three elevators. Dr. Norah pressed the upside down arrow button and then leaned against the wall. "At least once a month she finds a way to cease all of her brain's activity. It's like she purposely turns herself into a vegetable. I've never seen anything like it." Dr. Norah confessed. "We have no idea how she's able to revive herself. Her body isn't just able to tolerate the drugs but fight them off; the effectiveness is two percent at highest. Which is why I'm guessing she had to wait so long to overdose, she needed a hefty amount of pills. I've seen zero progress since she first arrived."

Iruka looked up at the panel over the middle elevator, it was rising slowly.

4…5…6…

"Her depression is chronic and she lacks basic social skills. She can spend hours just looking at a blank wall — I gave her methylphenidate to stimulate her system, but nada." Dr. Norah drummed her fingertips on her arms while they waited.

She might as well speak Chinese to him but he guessed the drug was some kind of cocaine-meets-sugar in a pill.

"She's been sabotaging her own health since day one, though. We monitor her diet strictly, she's under surveillance twenty-four seven, yet she suffers from high cholesterol, type-two diabetes, anemia, and other nutritional deficiencies which she didn't have when she first arrived."

Iruka could almost taste the poison of her words in the air. Her last comment had sparked a fuse; nutritional deficiencies reminded him of a specific quote made by a taunting blonde he knew.

_Let her lavish in her little coma state, before being reborn with her little insatiable thirst._

Nutritional deficiencies…thirst…Tsunade…

"Every once in a while an infection breaks out — after she feeds it. We've had to stop giving her insulin. Every time we'd cut her to test her blood-sugar levels the next day the cut would be about four inch wider and already infected, she would even spit in it. The girl's saliva is like fucking acid." Dr. Norah gritted her teeth, apparently for some strange reason all three elevators had stopped on the same floor and had stayed there for the last twenty seconds or so. She wondered what could possibly be delaying all three at the same time on Floor 6.

Iruka rolled his eyes. There are no such things as omens, even though this place was a man-built one.

"Individualized therapy aimed at identifying her problem has been abandoned and psychological therapy ended with a simple and clear 'inconclusive'. I'm only giving her anticonvulsant medication to prevent her seizures and some specific antibiotics. Some other cool facts about Poison Ivy include: she suffers from insomnia, mood swings, and is erotically fascinated with blood."

Iruka shifted uncomfortably in his sweater. Perhaps he really should have consulted with his almanac…

Dr. Norah inspected his reaction. How strange. Most undergraduates would be blabbering nervously already about an appointment they had 'forgotten' they had today at this very hour. "She received a zero in her AMTS scores…"

Iruka looked down at the opened file: Abbreviated Mental Test Score fit the acronym.

"She couldn't even recognize her own reflection." Dr. Norah finished softly then, since the elevator beside her opened at the end of her words with a jubilant 'ding!' A smile spread on her thin lips and she saluted with two fingers. "Good luck, have fun brave soldier." She jested.

When the doors opened completely Iruka found someone else already inside. A green-uniformed male nurse with the physical ability to become the bodyguard of a prominent figure. The gouty trimmed nurse waved to Dr. Norah. "Cecile, how are you this morning?" his deep voiced made Iruka self-conscious of his own.

"Sued." Dr. Norah budged off the wall and watched Iruka give her a puzzled glance. "Yan will take you to Poison Ivy."

Yan's smile fell instantly. "_What?_"

"Yan will do this because it is his job; that is unless he wants me to speak to our superiors so they fire his under-qualified ass." Dr. Norah didn't take her eyes off Iruka, so she missed the one-finger gesture Yan sent her way.

"I just came up here to use the good restroom." Yan muttered, watching Iruka walk into the elevator and stand beside him.

"Don't bring your hopes up kid. All of our psychiatrists, neurologists, geriatric internists and even neuropsychologists have seen her and none have come up with a mold to the key of her locked subconscious. And just so you know, by now there must be a bet in the lunchroom of how long you'll last down there. Suki's quite the gambler." Dr. Norah waved goodbye, her smirk widening.

"From what you've told me her attention span sounds microscopic, and she's nothing but a disoriented ghost. Trying to crack into a mind that's already rotten doesn't seem very exhilarating." Iruka concluded, punching down on the seven in the number panel.

Dr. Norah frowned. "We provided an IQ test when she first entered; she appeared bewildered throughout the entire ordeal."

Iruka sighed loudly. He was practically wasting his time here. Hinata was obviously not only psychologically unstable but impaired. If she was unable to recognize her own reflection, thought she ate rainbow slugs at night, and tried to kill herself practically every full moon, what use was she?

"She scored a 215." Dr. Norah finished, and saw Iruka's eyes widen in surprise as the metallic doors finally slid closed, erasing all possibilities to turn back.

She waited in front of the elevator until the numbers began to decrease before digging a hand into her loose hair, and looking heavenward, mentally chanting a prayer. She narrowed her eyes slightly when she noticed something moving inside the ventilation shaft above her.

"Don't underestimate evil." She whispered to herself, but intended for another's ears, as she watched the black butterfly escape from its cold prison and begin yet another journey into the endless hallways.

.

-x-

.

The elevator descend was like a trance express; a surreal daze that was unexpectedly making him nauseas. The inside of the elevator would shake violently every few seconds or so, as though the outside was rasping against jagged rock…scraping through to the center of the earth…creating a passage underground to reach the fiery heart of hell.

He felt like he had been tricked into this four-feet wide box, which stood about a hundred feet above (or below) the ground, secured by only a dozen or so one-inch wires.

The lower they descended the dimmer the lights inside would become, the louder the screeching of the crane would growl, the stronger the aroma of drugs, vomit, and blood would strain his senses. Iruka knew that the invisible puddle of omens he had accidently splashed into was about to manifest into a thousand nagging insecurities the second these doors would open once more.

"You know, the last intern who interviewed Poison Ivy is now a patient here." Yan commented, leaning lazily against the rusty elevator wall. Iruka's wide stare grew wider, if possible. "So, what are you? Psychiatrists? Journalist? Wicca?"

Iruka pretended to be reading Hinata's file, since sparking a conversation with a nurse wasn't really in his plans to remain as anonymous as possible. "I'm not here to worship her, if that's what you believe."

Yan raised an eyebrow. "Someone said that to me once, but when we opened up Ivy's cell we found the woman rocking back and forth in a corner. Apparently she had wanted to use Ivy's blood for some kind of demonic spell. The lady's a nun now; it seems that Poison Ivy showed her the true power of worshipping the inappropriate."

Iruka was really trying to block this talkative nurse's voice but it really wasn't working. Having this conversation was not helping him concentrate on what he was about to do.

"Then this other time she kept running and ramming her head against the wall, practically smashed her nose in." Iruka watched the nurse trying to reenact the scene for him in awe-struck horror. "But then in like a week she had healed; she was as good as new." He finished, in a breathless tone.

Positive thoughts: …

Negative thoughts: _where to begin?_

"Sometimes I think it's like she's trying to kill herself but she's…" the elevator shifted violently and came to an abruptly stop, the twin doors sliding open in unison. "…unbreakable…"

Iruka had never in his life blocked a memory. Yet if asked to describe what happened afterwards he would only be able to recall a handful of things. For instance, after leaving the elevator he remembered more hallways, and then a sudden stop in front of a locked, steel bar door — then a security checkup where they confiscated his pen — then an unnecessary body search by one of the female nurses — then another stop where a manual was shoved into his hands and several officers spoke to him at the same time about restrictions while Yan continued leading the way. Then finally one more metallic gate opened and he was in a security room with wide plasmas and three security guards lounging on leather chairs eating Chinese noodles. That was the first time he saw her…so everything became queasily real afterwards.

She was in the center screen monitor, perfectly still in a dark corner.

"Yan! Haven't seen you in a while, how's the wife?" one of the guards got up from his rotating chair, shaking hands with Yan.

"We're separated." Yan deadpanned, freeing himself from the guard's grip. "Anyways, I'm here to deliver Ivy's latest victim." With that he nudged his head towards Iruka, who rolled his eyes.

The security guard laughed at the exchange, then turned towards a large switchboard beneath the screens and twisted a key; causing a metallic door to their right to slide into the wall, revealing a dark hallway lit by scarce round light bulbs.

"Try to stomach your breakfast." Yan encouraged, patting Iruka roughly on the back. Iruka walked through the room to the entrance of the hallway. At least there was one thing that was going his way today; the monitors had no volume so his conversation with 'Poison Ivy' would be completely confidential.

Yan walked to the doorframe when Iruka was already a couple of feet inside, copping his hands over his mouth like a megaphone. "Don't worry! She's sedated and we've strapped her! Just approach with extreme caution, she's sort of dangerous."

The guards inside the other room laughed even louder at this.

Of course, she just had to be in the last room at the end of the hallway. Meanwhile, on either side of him, for the first time since he'd arrived in this enigmatic place, the walls around him were no longer concrete but solid crystal. They revealed the occupants, many which found Iruka the most fascinating thing they'd ever seen while others were too busy tasking in an empty room except for a hard bed.

One particularly skinny woman was standing on her tiptoes on the edge of her bed; her facial expression read 'I'm standing on the fridge of a hundred-foot building'. She'd release a high pitched scream and then throw herself off the bed before hurriedly scrambling back on it and trying it all over again — talk about inefficient suicide…

In the cell next to her an elderly man was busy having a conversation with himself while in hefty tears. He continued apologizing for strangling his daughter…wife…brother…niece…and himself…

But the most disturbing was a young frizzy-haired woman who continued following Iruka with her gaze, while licking the crystal of her cell with her tongue, following his trail.

Fine. He admitted it. He was officially shitting his pants.

By the time his hand curled around the knob of the last steel door, all of his fingers were numb. A loud beeping noise rang through the air and the light above the door turned green. Iruka pushed it towards him, and it gave out in a sharp pressure of air.

He opened the door completely, staring inside. Around him everything became silent. No one jumped off beds, or cried in loud whimpers, or licked any surfaces — all the patients just leaned against the walls, as flat as boards, as though trying to hide.

The lighting inside was modestly bright, except for one corner which seemed darker, but perhaps it was just because she was huddled into it. Long waves of charcoal hair extended over her shoulders and onto her breast, thick bangs hiding the top of her face.

Around her everything was vibrantly white; the sponge room was spotlessly stainless. Even Ivy's curt, white dress-gown was blindly bleached. Her crossed legs hugged her chest while her arms stayed imprisoned in a binding straightjacket.

Iruka took a shaky step forward onto the soft floor, and then another, before closing the door behind him.

His eyes traveled to the video camera situated in the right top corner of the room, and he thought about the collection of guns in a crystal shelf in the security room he had previously exited. He unconsciously began to calculate what the odds were of him leaving this place alive if Ivy was having a bad day.

He cleared his throat loudly but received no response of acknowledgment. Was she pretending, or truly reclusive in an alternative reality? Were complex mathematical equations and scientific questionnaires the only things that resided in her mind, other than dead entitles of course? The walking brain dead or dark genius?

Iruka narrowed his eyes, exasperated with the series of events he'd faced in the time frame of an hour or so. Either conclusion that could be reached today held a positive and a negative. If Hinata was in fact a complete lunatic, then he'd wasted his time on her instead of wandering through the desert while trying to find Gaara. If Hinata still had some morsel of rational brain function, the reasons for her insanity might just be her future fellow comrades. But one thing was for certain, Iruka would not be ignored when finally facing this conclusion.

"Hinata?" He waited a couple of seconds before asking. "Poison Ivy?"

Still, no reaction…

"I don't know if you remember me," He began in a louder-than-necessary voice, pretending that she'd answered; yet still not moving from his spot in front of the door. "My name is Iruka…I was your teacher once in Konoha, the village where you grew up in. Do you remember Konoha?"

She hadn't moved a centimeter since he'd arrived, eyes probably concentrated on her exposed knees, if open at all. He might as well carry conversation with a wall for the attention she was paying.

"I was part of your past. I can help you remember." Beating around the bush was never his style, but the silence that followed was saw-toothed with nothingness. "Perhaps if you visit the home you grew up in…the playground you played in as a child…the dorm room you resided in while training to be a ninja. Maybe then your memories will return. In Konoha you will be able to recover them; if you just come with me everything will finally become clear."

Even the wall would have shown some sign of life by now…

"Do you even know why you're trapped in this place? That your true name is Hinata?"

Iruka had the strange feeling that an earthquake could strike and she wouldn't even notice. He felt irritated to have to do so but he'd have to resort to Kakashi's previous brainwashing if he wished to leave this place before the dawn of time. "_During the first period of a man's life the greatest danger is not to take the risk_." He quoted, his eyes eager for any reply or sign of recognition.

Stillness followed, making the irritated Iruka pinch the bridge of his nose. It occurred to him then that he'd left her file somewhere while passing through all the security measures. What was worse, being completely ignored or savagely accused of demonic possession?

"_Far from idleness being the root of all evil, it is rather the only true good._"

His eyes opened instantly and for a second he almost looked around the room to see if another person had entered. But it was only the two of them, and the soft, barely audible words had come from the mute girl now slowly raising her chin.

She blinked, oh so slowly that Iruka wondered if she was talking in her sleep. The lower lids of her eyes were shadowed with heavy bags tinted in bruising purplish-red. He was dumbstruck; the once ranting ninja now had no idea what to say next to this fine frenzy…this sleepless child…

He opened his mouth to respond but then caught sight of her pupils and whatever he was about to say died both in his throat and short-term memory. Her eyes were a grayish-blue, but most importantly, the once round pupil was now diamond shaped – slit like a cell victimized in a Petri dish. The longer his jaw stayed widely open the more she'd tilt her head, her expression that of tedious fatigue and indifference.

"Do you…" He looked away from her intense, blank stare, finding it indecently straightforward. He pretended to clear his throat while gathering his thoughts. "Do you know your real name? How you got here?" From the corner of his eye he saw her blink again, her dry and cracked lips vividly red but dead, inactive, almost forgotten of existence.

"…Why did you leave Konoha, Hinata? You're the only one without a reason." Iruka pressed gently, taking a step forward and changing to an accusatory strategy.

"Shh…" Hinata closed her eyes, extending her neck backwards in relaxation. "Hear that? The sky is angry at earth, hmm…what has she done now?"

Iruka froze. She was talking about the snowstorm outside but this room was completely soundproof.

"What will it take for you to listen to me?" Iruka asked in exasperation, dismissing her comment as sheer coincidence or old tactic training. "If you are truly insane then what I am about to propose will be meaningless, but if you are in the midst of some convincing act, this should crack your performance wide open."

"It's strange isn't it…although it is earth who sins…the sky is the one who cries." Hinata whispered, eyes opening slowly and trained on the soft ceiling.

"Konoha is under attack." Iruka bellowed, his arms expressing his hurriedness; he no longer cared if she found his tone unkind or forceful. "The Hokage has asked for you; he is willing to pay whatever you wish, do whatever you want, and engorge your every desire! If you accept his proposal then you will leave with me now. If you do not wish to partake in it than simply refuse."

Hinata snuggled against the spongy wall, twisting her neck sideways. "But I suppose it's alright that the sky cries, his tears drown earth's children." She reasoned, her tone that of a preschool student learning the true definition of rain and erasing all mythical fantasies told in childhood.

Iruka sighed, allowing his hands to swing beside him freely. "Is there anything I can get you? Anything you'd like that we could give you?"

"Snakes." was the almost instant response.

Iruka needed no more convincing. Hinata was over the rainbow, on the fourth dimension, and singing with the elves. "Excuse me?"

"Garter snakes are the scum of the species. They're often found hiding in house gardens, yet they're harmless to humans. They do not possess the skills to kill one so instead they feed off slugs, earthworms, lizards, leeches…" Hinata commenced with eyes glossily vacant and eyelids only half open, as though reciting a dictionary by heart.

Iruka looked down at her with pity, the one time she speaks in comprehendible complete sentences and the topic is 'snakes'. "That's…"

"Pathetic." Hinata cleared, her tongue slurring in the middle syllable, with a tone much stronger than the one seconds before. And then the unexpected happened, the unpredictable or non-understandable — she began to rise. Iruka took an unconscious step backwards as he watched her lean against the wall effortlessly and almost uncoil upwards, with amazing flexibility you'd never expect from a common hospice patient in vegetable state.

"Copperheads…" Hinata continued, her volume increasing with each word yet tone utterly monotonous, while her thin body rested against the wall. "…ambush their prey, but they wait for it to come to them. Nocturnal creatures — although venomous they freeze at the sight of a human…become paralyzed with _fear_. And if given the opportunity and not rushed, will simply leave unnoticed and without afflicting damage. Hmm…once again…"

Her eye glimmered for an instant with a sparkle infamous to the human race as pleasurable hypocrisy, and then she looked up in a direction Iruka had once before with longing. She gazed at the video camera in the corner as she said slowly. "P…a…t…h…e…t…i…c…"

.

-x-

.

Across the hallway in the security room, one of the guards looked up from his noodle box and narrowed his eyes as he noticed some static taking over the center screen. He flicked the monitor with his chopsticks to try and beat the screen to a clear picture but it just worsened, almost completely erasing the video of Iruka and Hinata to a foggy white. And then the strangest thing happened — the screen switched off and turned pitch black, except that for the faintest second the last strike of white light in the center held a strange shape…a butterfly almost, except this creature had only one wing…

The guard was about to protest, since they had just bought new batteries for all the monitors the week before when all the other screens began shaking with static at the same time. Then, consequently, the overhead lights shut off, no flicker warning at all. After that, the monitors finally began dying, one by one.

.

-x-

.

Iruka watched Hinata with petrified curiosity as she walked barefoot towards him with steady posture and perfect balance. He was unsure if he should move or if showing alarm was not wise. But before he could reach a decision she'd stopped a foot in front of his face, too short to look him in the eye. But either way her eyes seemed to be exclusively on his neck, examining it with hungry fascinate as though it were a delicious piece of raw meat.

"Then there's the Cobra, which spits venom into an opponent's eyes — a very painful, clear-cut move…of close range." Precisely how she was now. Iruka gulped, feeling her steady breathing on his neck as she stretched her neck forward to observe his veins.

Her voice lowered again, to a pitch barely above a whisper. "You'd think such a being would prey on humans, yet it only does so if threatened as well. Instead the Cobra feeds off other snakes, even venomous ones. But did you know that if you wash the venom off your eyes you can see perfectly again? It's almost like an illusion." she questioned, straying away and walking back to her corner, leaving an astonished Iruka whom immediately placed a hand over the wet flesh of his neck.

She'd licked him…

"I —uh— I didn't know that." Iruka admitted in stutter, still frazzled, watching Hinata stop in the center of the room, her back to him.

"As for the Python…"

.

-x-

.

"This place is seriously falling apart." One of the security guards complained, banging on the top of a monitor with his fist. "What happened to the backup power battery of this facility?"

The second guard groaned, rolling his chair towards the switchboard. He fumbled in the dark for the right button. "We need to get that kid out of there. We can't have him in there with Ivy without surveillance. Zuma, go fetch a flashlight." He suggested, his fingers recognizing the necessary switch and flicking it.

But nothing happened.

"Don't tell me _all_ our power is out. Shit! Zuma is there any other way of opening that door?" He asked, turning to look at Zuma who switched on a flashlight he'd taken from a drawer.

"No way, all doors are automatic since check point two. He's locked in there till we fix the power." Zuma informed, before looking down at the flashlight in his hand which was flickering inconsistently.

.

-x-

.

"Ah, the Python. Here's a beast with the stamina to kill humans. But it usually just attacks unsuspecting children. They coil around the child, and asphyxiate them…" Hinata's words were filled with admiration, as she looked up at the bright lights still illuminating the room. "Unfortunately, these wonderful creatures have been hunted rather aggressively in post years…few remain…"

Iruka wiped the saliva off his neck with his fingers. His contorted expression of sympathy and confusion changed right then. Something seemed out of place. Though when you're in a locked, soundproof room with a psychopath you learn to ignore the tingling sense of danger…he had the nagging sensation that something had gone grievously wrong…

Wait — did he smell smoke?

"Am I boring you? Don't worry, I won't be long…" Hinata assured, finally reaching the corner and sliding down again towards the floor. "Finally, there is the Anaconda. The largest and most powerful snake in the world. Killer through constriction which causes internal bleeding, rather inspirational no? It's almost like it kills you from the inside out. Its entire life revolves around hunting — killing — growing."

Iruka was only halfheartedly paying attention. The odor was becoming stronger, it smelled like something was burning, a fuse perhaps. Or were his senses finally losing control after the day's antics?

"They're known to grow up to fifty feet long and can swallow a human whole. But do you know what their one weakness is?" Hinata's question awoke him from his foggy daydream.

"The elements?" Iruka gambled, he'd been doing a lot of guessing today.

"Their size." She replied, ravishing the answer. "The one thing they obsess over their entire lives. Their strength is their one weakness. Many die of starvation, unable to conceal themselves to catch a yummy lunch. They don't kill humans either, unless they're hungry…which happens quite a lot…"

The look she gave him made him feel as though he was on a picnic blanket, covered in syrup, and waiting to be cut into pieces…

.

-x-

.

The hallway in front of the solitary confinement chamber was hindered with earsplitting screams.

The ward patients seemed to be caught in some psychological frenzy. They ran around their small cells, banging on the crystal –— ripping at their bed sheets — yelling incoherent words in an unworldly foreign language.

For the sparking finish of the afternoon, the light bulbs in the hallway were exploding one by one. An electric shock was swimming through the power line connecting all of them together, like a parasite that had dipped into the cord and was now infecting the lamps.

A thick fog of smoke clouded the hall to such an extent that it became impossible to see through into the crystal cells. And then the smoke began to seep through the bottom of the metallic closed door…

"What on earth…" Zuma murmured, as all three guards stood in astonishment while hearing the patient's frantic cries. "Is there a fire in there?" he screamed, and then saw a thin trail of smoke slither up from beneath the door.

He followed it with the light of his flashlight as it traced upwards towards the fire sprinklers. The sprinklers turned on immediately, droplets of watering raining down on the three men.

"Shit! Open the entrance door!" Zuma yelled, as the other two ran towards the second exit. They fought to stick the tips of their fingers between the crack of the door and the wall, pulling with all their strength. But the door wasn't budging…

Zuma stood in front of the switchboard, cursing loudly. "I can't unlock that door either! Fuck!"

He pointed the flashlight downwards. The flooding water was already to their knees…

.

-x-

.

"You seem to know much about snakes. You must be fond of them." Iruka wondered redundantly, though he truly did not care for her unhealthy obsession.

Honestly, this small talk turned useless since she decided to twist it into a zoology lesson. The day's conclusion held no victories or even purpose. Instead of exploring the desert for a demon collector, he'd lost countless hours carrying conversation with a psychiatrist's worst nightmare.

"I despise them." Hinata whispered in a dreamy tone.

Iruka looked down with puzzlement at the frail girl in the dark corner, victim to her own self-mechanism…

And then, without her expression of placid boredom altering for an instant, her arms escaped from the straightjacket wrap. They came out in a fluttering wave, as swift as butterfly wings being released from a jacket made of weightless fog.

All at once, reality changed.

Iruka froze in awe-struck horror as he felt his legs go numb — and knew his own fear was not the cause. Gravity seemed intensified abruptly, and his own arms became far too heavy to move, and even his eyelids were having difficulty remaining open. It was a shaking atmosphere, a chunky air that hung heavy like the dusty wind of desert peninsulas.

He tried to shake his body but nothing would move, the grip merely strengthened. The more he struggled mentally the tighter his lungs were strained of air, as though invisible ropes were curled around his body…as though he had fallen prey to a hidden snake.

_He_ was the victim to lore of ice-cold magic that was stretching his tendons to their breaking point — sawing at his bones with freezing flames — pulling him down towards the ground as though afraid that gravity might stop existing and he'd float off into mid air.

"Strange, isn't it?" Hinata murmured dispassionately, as though completely unaware that Iruka was literally being asphyxiated. "The Garter snake is almost like a bounty collector who gathers the scraps no one wishes to devour…"

He felt as though he'd just been stabbed, by a jagged piece of metal heated above hundreds of degrees. And he felt like his veins were thinning in a snow rush, freezing solid inside his body. But euphoria struck his brain when her words reached his ears.

_Garter snake…bounty collector…_

_Ino._

He couldn't swallow and felt the saliva building beneath his cheeks. And then his body did something he did not order it to do, did not wish for it to perform, and was terrified of what it might result in.

He opened his mouth wide open.

In the meantime, Hinata coiled and uncoiled her fingers in front of her face, entranced by the movement. "Sometimes I find myself thinking of the Copperhead as a cornered animal that only bites when tempted…"

Iruka's eyes widened when he realized what she was doing. He watched her hand close — and felt his heart stop. He watched her hand open — and felt it beat once again.

His brain, however, merely listened and interpreted what she said.

_An empty ring. A meaningless title. Shikamaru…_

What he felt next was the strongest shiver he'd ever experienced. Because that's when he began to feel them. Inside his pants and sweater, a sticky slim that was moving slowly…a scratching slithering as they skidded up and down…dozens upon dozens…tickling his flesh yet all headed towards the same destination. His head…his mouth…his opened mouth…

"I'd like you to think of the Cobra as the terminator of its own species, counting on surprise attacks to destroy equally violent creatures…" Hinata begged courteously, playing with her lower lip using her fingertips as she watched Iruka stare down at his body with his eyes, his head immobilized forward.

They were multicolored slugs…red, green, blue, orange, purple…all crawling up his body and reaching his face. Some were already whisking past his ears, others reaching the top of his head, so close to the final tunnel to reach the train.

_Contracts. Termination. Neji…Tenten…_

His thoughts were a mere daze — he hadn't breathed in the last minute or so.

Hinata stretched her arms above her hand, in a graceful ballerina manner that once again made them seem like wings. It was as though the sleepy caterpillar had finally awakened and transformed into the demonic butterfly. "The Python is the one who throws natural order out the window and goes looking for trouble — and always finds it, but is threatened by its very prey." She whispered, spreading her arms apart and beside her.

_Serial crimes. Bloody mind games. Temari…_

Iruka felt the first slug crawl into his mouth, tasted it on his tongue and immediately felt like vomiting. Its taste was unlike anything he'd eaten…like a rotten piece of flesh…

He closed his eyes, unable to take the torture any longer. But when he closed them, it was as though he'd awoken. The minute darkness became his vision, feeling disappeared completely.

"Think of the Anaconda as an animal that falls casualty to its own quest for power…"

Her voice still reached him. And he couldn't help the next thought that crossed his mind: _Gaara?_

He was afraid to open his eyes again, to feel the pain — the breaking of his bones — the slugs all over his body. But his eyes had a life of their own, an unknown master, and they unclasped and stared back into the chamber.

Iruka was still standing by the door.

Hinata was still huddled in her corner…embraced by a straightjacket…eyes still vacant and glossy…eyelids still half-way open and bruised…

Iruka rubbed his eyes, but found his hands trembling uncontrollably. And when he pulled them back he noticed something different. There were slimy trails of multicolor, small curved rainbows, all over his arms.

"You should get going now." Hinata said, leaving no room to argue. "It was nice talking to you."

He didn't need to be told twice.

Iruka turned around and pushed the door open. It wasn't locked, and the reason for it became apparent as he stared into the hallway. The smoke fog wasn't as thick as it had been at its commencement, but it was still wavering in the narrow passage. Above, the lamp wires had detached and were sending sparks in all directions from their cut ends onto the tiled floor.

Iruka felt the solitary confinement door close behind him, and knew that Hinata still hadn't moved an inch from her corner. He practically power walked through the hall, scratching at his hands to peal the colors off his flesh. He avoided the fallen wires and pretended not to hear the screaming from the frantic patients — pretended not to see them banging against the crystal.

He reached the end of the hallway in mere seconds and looked at the entrance door to the security room. It wasn't opening, much to his distress. Iruka shifted in place with impatience before spotting a green button beside the exit and pressing it three times in a row.

He didn't know what to think — what to do — but mostly, he couldn't believe that he'd gotten out of that situation completely unscathed.

Then the door slid into the wall, and a cold wave of water rushed against his body, impacting it at full force. It held the wielding power of a current and made his body bend down towards the ground as charges of water crashed against the nearby crystals. All he could do was try to keep his head above the water, and wait for the torrent to end; his arms and legs were too weak to swim…his mind abused of tolerance…

Slowly, the gallons of water began to pacify, until only a small stream of water continued running below him, dipping his knees in black azure. Iruka shakily straightened and brought his hands up to examine them. They were still trembling, but he noticed that the only evidence of reality breaking inside that chamber had been completely washed off — his hands had been wiped clean of rainbow slug trails.

By now the fog had gone, and the sparking fuses had been consumed underwater. The patients stood still, like children unsure of what to do after the earthquake had ceased to tremble. One in specific did not shift his gaze from Iruka's form. The same lunatic old man from before gave into a toothless grin and then began clapping clumsily in happiness.

Iruka looked his way, realizing that this was the second time today that he'd received applause for something he hadn't done.

He narrowed his eyes and spit out a mouthful of water.

.

-x-

.

"You know, I've seen a lot of weird things while working here but I've got to admit…this one takes the cake!" Yan laughed, distinctively leaning against the elevator wall with one shoulder while examining the drenched Iruka from head to toe.

Iruka didn't answer, as expected, knowing that his clothing was soaking and clinging to him in wrinkled folds; and he looked like a hairy poodle on bath day. But he did press his handkerchief up against his nose again, to cover the massive nosebleed he was currently experiencing.

"Man did she do a number on you! You should have heeded my warnings, my friend." Yan wagged a long finger Iruka's way, unable to contain a new batch of chuckles after his comment.

Never. Not even if Iruka fell into a coma, vegetable state — or became a textbook psychopath — or slit people's wrist and was nicknamed Poison Ivy Jr. — would Iruka ever consider this man beside him his _friend_.

"You'll be hearing from my lawyer." Iruka deadpanned, wiping the tip of his nose gently.

Yan smirked while ruffling his wild spikes. "Cecile's going to be thrilled when I tell her. Four lawsuits in one day, well, five." He laughed again, and Iruka began clenching and unclenching his fists while counting to ten.

He decided to concentrate on the elevator music he had failed to listen to before, or perhaps hadn't been on, but whatever the case, it was a good distraction. Yes most certainly a good dist—…wait…was that _Go On, Go On, Leave Me Breathless_?

Oh yeah, he was **so** suing…

"Do you know how she ended up here?" Iruka had no idea why he was asking; perhaps his mouth was still in someone else's control.

"Well I wasn't working here yet but one of my coworkers told me that she showed up one day at the front desk covered in blood and screaming for them to put her away." Yan shared excitedly. "There wasn't a single scratch on her so I'm guessing the blood wasn't hers. But she has no prints — like none, it's the freakiest thing. If she did, you know…" Yan grabbed his own neck and pretended to choke himself (Iruka rather enjoyed this reenactment). "Anyways, if she did finish someone off she got squeaky clean off that one."

"So you don't know her name?" Iruka reasoned.

"She says her name is Samael."

"Samael?" Iruka chorus in uncertainty. Was it possible that Hinata remembered Ino, Shikamaru, Neji, Tenten and the others…but not herself?

Yan rolled his eyes. "But we all know she's lying. She only said it once but she didn't just say her name was Samael…"

"_I am Samael."_

"_That's a nice name. Who named you, your mother or father?"_

"_God." Hinata looked up. "I am an archangel, once guardian of Esau, brother of Jacob. I then became seduced by wealth and greed and created the sinful bloom of Rome."_

"…_What year do you think it is Samael?"_

"_Did you know that my name means 'Poison of God'?" Hinata closed her eyes. "I guess He knew since the day He created me that I was destined for corruption…I now rot in the Seventh Heaven as the angel of death."_

The elevator doors opened in unison and the lobby light quickly guzzled them. But before Iruka could exit the damned contraption a beaming Suki blocked the passage of exit as she practically jumped on the balls of her feet with excitement. "Look what I found! I named her Natalie Eve!" She brought her hidden hands out from behind her back and showed them a small bird-like cage.

Iruka's jaw dropped as he stared in shock at the wounded, baby butterfly in velvety black.

.

-x-

.

Iruka placed the cream-colored hoody above his head, and nuzzled against the fabric of his sweater. The movement allowed him to catch a glimpse of his watch which informed him that he'd checked out of Hollinsblue Psychiatric Hospital only five minutes ago.

Now around him lay parallel parked vehicles belonging to its employees. Many covered under thick mounts of snow though by now the snowstorm had died down to a mere drizzle of flurry that clung to his shoulders in puffy sparkles. The lot was deserted, and filled with just middle-class cars, though after today's experience psychiatrist had three bold lines in-between after being eliminated from Iruka's list of possible retirement jobs.

He was almost afraid to look back at the black tower in which resided one of the seeds of Konoha – one that hadn't blossomed in enough time to be devoured at the grand feast, and is now slowly rotting. But the day was far from over, in his pocket he had a train ticket and in the other a key to a locker at the station filled with supplies for a successful campout in the dry forests (almost desert-like drenches) of Akai.

He merely slipped on the slippery slop of the concrete lot but managed to regain his balance.

"If you continue walking like that people will think you're training for a marathon."

Iruka had just regained his posture when he turned towards a bright red Volvo, on which a certain white-haired enigma of a man was leaning against the driver's door, enjoying a cancerous cigarette.

Iruka wiped some frost off his eyebrows and then dipped his hands into his pockets, to prevent the cold weather from numbing them. "Kakashi. Shouldn't you be back at the bar hooking up with 'redhead by the jukebox' for your appointed date?"

Kakashi looked up at the hospital. "Got bored. Left for a walk."

Iruka couldn't tell if the mist coming from between his parting lips was smoke or vapor. He found it strange that his old friend and now faint adversary did not have his mask on for once. It had been a while since he'd seen the man beneath it…

"The zakaya is two miles away." Iruka said blankly, not buying his story.

"A long walk." Kakashi cleared, conveniently.

Iruka gave him a disbelieving look before shaking his head. "I will never understand you. Well, see you…someday…" He shrugged his shoulders and began walking away again towards the bus stop across the lot.

"She accepts."

Iruka's shoes squealed as he came to a halt. "Come again?" he asked, having difficulty not slipping on the ice below him.

"Hinata, she accepts." Kakashi said slowly, dropping the cigarette on the ground and crushing it with his boot.

"What the hell are you saying?" Iruka pressed, his heart beating uncharacteristically fast.

"I spoke with her." Kakashi explained calmly.

"So did I – ten minutes ago!"

"After which I dropped in for a visit, knowing your capable record of failures." Kakashi had fished for a new cigarette already and was busy lighting it, either unaware or just not caring for Iruka's disheveled look. "I hope you don't mind me smoking, I can't really do this while Suri is around."

Though they both knew Kakashi would smoke even if Iruka began a public, violent protest against it.

Iruka didn't crack a smile but instead settled to stutter in confusion. "But how did you…when could you have…why would she listen to…how the hell did you get her to accept?"

"I know the magic words." Kakashi explained simply, straightening off the Volvo and walking away in the other direction, towards the dead-end area blocked by a fence.

Iruka didn't know how he should feel — pleased? Uncomfortable? Scared shitless again? But most importantly, when he'd asked Hinata what she desired her answer hadn't been snakes, that was only a change of topic. The truth was that they had nothing she could possibly want, but everything she detested. So…

"What are the magic words?" Iruka asked loudly, since Kakashi was already yards away and mere feet from the fence.

Kakashi turned, walking backwards. "A magician never reveals his secrets." He smirked, turning around again.

Iruka looked back up at Hollinsblue Psychiatric Hospital, with the sudden idea that if Hinata could hear through soundproof walls…perhaps even see through them…and make even the insane afraid of her psychotic instability…what couldn't she do?

The thought had barely registered when a new forceful impact waved through the air. An ear chattering explosion destroyed the entirely of the seventh floor, as flames consumed the level and breached through the windows, making coils of smoke and fire drift down onto the melting snow in the parking lot. Screams erupted quickly while all the vehicles' alarms suddenly began honking around him and small material ashes rained down like powered asphalt.

Kakashi didn't turn as he jumped the five-foot fence with ease.

Iruka closed his eyes — hoping that once again he'd awaken. But he knew that this was one circumstance he could not hide from.

He was forever stuck in the worst nightmare of his entire life…

.

-x-

.


	6. Memoirs of the Departed — Prt 2

.

**Chapter Six**

**Memoirs of the Departed**

—**Part Two**—

.

.

.

_What words are these that shudder through my sleep?_

_Changing from silver into crimson flakes,_

_And molten into gold._

_Like the pale opal through whose gray may seep_

_A scarlet flame, like eyes of crested snakes,_

_Keen, furious, and too cold._

_.Aleister Crowley. (Dreams)_

.

.

.

…Seven long days post…

_December 3rd_

.

.

.

Legend has it that it all began in the House of Leaves.

"Upstairs and downstairs, in and out of every room…"

On a dry December morning, the districts' narrow streets huddled beneath a blanket of silky hail. The soft descend of plucked petals, melted teardrops and shredded rosebuds. Resembling bloody cotton balls, or perhaps swelled blood-spattered snowflakes — the bountiful cascade of crimson dew escaped from large ceramic basins; wielded baskets in the punctured fingertips of palace servants. Eager spectators craned their necks, glancing at every imperial balcony above that surrounded the crowded marketplace, waiting for said early-bird servants to dip their callous hands into delicate blooms before sprinkling them onto the awaiting residents below. The grotesque beauty served as gory ginger, tangible death of velvety texture, and fawning excursion.

"…within a glass house, but I have only one stone…"

The blind celebration was a winter festival, _Every Heart of Snow_, the grieving memorial of leaves and baptism of ice. Home to the beating of drums and stringing of shamisens, sewing of ornate kimonos and styling of traditional hair fashions, seizing of old checkers and shopping for gaudy fabrics and herbal taboo; the emergence of temporary shops and mystic catering with family recipes and hot oil, public demonstrations of crafted furniture, hand painted portraits, and all other assortments of handicrafts. The seasonal creation of an alien world raided with masked performers and twelve-legged dragons, fire breathers, glass hurlers, torch twirlers, musicians, thespians, and translucent tents jacketing small temples.

"…My reflections lie outside, on the other side of the walls. But they speak of nothing of which I ask. I requested a staircase of exile, but they advised me to follow dark revolutions of transparent violence. Then I simply asked where I stood, and they accused me of bemusing the seasons — of not grasping or distinguishing the intense urgency. Thus I bellowed for reason, but their answer was to jog and yell in the magic realm of lies…"

Bewitched winter was a granted miracle and wonderland in simplicity to those of animistic faith, hence, various offerings to the Shinto Gods rested below the recently constructed temples. However, in front of the grand Shinto Shrines was the rebirth of a bursting graveyard. On the sacred grounds were pale-white trees made of wire structure and dried pines. Attached to the thin frames were the leafy components, folded strips of paper — omikujis.

These seemingly pitiful sheets contained oracles written within; telling a fortune whose subject varies diversely. Your oracle may concern the future, or award unsought wisdom, warn of discerning behavior, or even share the telling gossip of love. Nevertheless, your fortune's content may foretell of unwanted consequences, and the sequestered soul must then tie said strip of destiny to a tree. The tradition's foundation is that 'bad luck will wait by the tree rather than attach itself to the bearer'.

"It is romanticized death? The belief of the soul and the individual — a stranger's home of voluntary imprisonment — the innate orgasm of reincarnation! You hear them, but are you listening? Because at that moment, I reached Enlightenment."

Yet the custom never considered that instead of the bad luck flourishing up with the tree and killing the innocent creature's spiritual entity, the karma spinals down the core and infects the soil, manifesting into an epidemic of erosion that will eventually reach the destined of ill-prophesy. After all, we all walk on the earthly ground.

But such thoughts were distasteful during celebratory chime, especially during these hallowed fifteen days of the festival, whose principle was the union of chakra and dismissal of apathy. The atmosphere was that of placid calm, an odd stillness yet sociable expedition. Many citizens had only recently returned from the mountainous region and resurfaced from the town of the natural hot spring chain. They were still serene from the tranquil fumes of the town, located on the sole volcano visible from the village. The smoke of the heated water could be seen rising above the frosted volcano, the tallest of the mountains of the picturesque background.

"If I imitate the voices I can expect the remarkable, envision the unthinkable, travel the decades and listen to the intimate utterance of peace. _Awaken. Rise from your chair, look through the window, and notice that you're floating upon a piece of wreckage, a chunk of your bedroom hovering on the ocean_, that was their reason."

Though from the city view the volcano looked like a mere triangular pile of flour with a cut tip and a cluster of puffy clouds around it, it still inspired an ojiro eagle to whisk over the city and head in its direction. Meanwhile, the new arrivals cruised around window-shopping and poking towards certain displays every once in a while, in nothing but a simple yukata (the equivalence of a bathrobe) and with their moist hair soaking in the weak rays. But while the adults secretly missed a large, three-storied wooden bathhouse, the children nagged beside them and the charcoal braziers, wailing for their roasted rice cakes so they could finish their snow sculptures or hide in their snow domes.

Every once in a while they'd look up, and notice something.

Red. Raining red. Dripping red. Bleeding red.

"I became silent and listened — they pointed their sharpened fingers like chisels and knives, caressing their foreheads as though scraping their flesh — _tease the practice of self control; disjointed memories drape your window, for you are bobbing in shallow water, author of an inescapable clause. For the rejection of confusion is the skeletal outline of your shadow."_

And whilst the children dashed through snowball fights and engorged banana-shaped treats, everyone else blissfully waited for nightfall, preferably in the sake tastings. The stage shows began at nighttime, followed by dance recitals, a parade of floats, and then a firework conclusion — many had awoken in the early morning to reserve a suitable tatami mat before each event. Then at midnight the thousand lanterns hanging above the greeting pedestals or bright orange toriis were lit, the shining brightness a mere mocking gesture in comparison to the stars. The tradition was based on the belief that the glow would ward off evil spirits and prevent them from creeping into your bedroom before you jumped back into your futon at the dead of night in binding exhaustion.

A city on fire.

Not burning.

"Your shadow is a line, the line is a cord, the cord is a cloud, and the cloud is smoke. A king softly mouths guillotine…"

But the people want _fire._

"You're still looking for the right door, though you know there's no such thing."

Never had a prodigy expanded from the Eastern to the Western hemisphere of the globe, from the Southern to the Northern latitudes of civilization; nor prolonged from the first crack through the soil by the twisting roots of the Tree of Death, to its final moments as a heap of ashes. Though many argue the true commencement emerged in a train station on a speedy metro — or in the arctic of a foreign ocean — over a set of alcoholic beverages or abandoned church — even a mental asylum in Tokyo, the inscribed tablets unearthed from the crumbling remains of the Konoha Village say as follows…

.

-x-

.

She bobbed her inked eyelashes, reaching clarity of reality, and decided to sip from the teacup in her hands with the tips of her lips. Eventually, she set the cold green-tea down on the low table before her, and above the thick carpet of soft yellows and jade. "When was the last time you died in a dream?" she inquired, dipping a finger into the bottom of the cup, gathering the chunky scraps to make a shape.

"What a persistent invitation for conversation." The kimonoed tea-partner held an arrogant appearance, especially as she removed a fragile fan from her obi and began refreshing her face. She was obviously wealth in human materialization, which she supported by rolling her black eyes smothered underneath golden makeup. "You think too much, sister. You should listen to our tutor and stop trying to interpret these dreams of yours. They're nothing but rubbish."

Across the table, the other heavily dressed speaker turned her head toward the window. Outside she could see shifting snow, yet it merely turned out to be Red-Crown Cranes, pecking at the snow, skipping as though the clumsy creatures wished to miraculously drift up into the air at any second and embark in flight. She always wondered why they were called so; these birds were nothing but the purest white.

"I was never in a glass house," She looked back at her sister, who was beckoning a servant forward with a sensual inward motion of her fingers. "I was underwater all that time, drowning in uncertainty."

She received a contorted stare, a mixture of annoyance and pity. "Honestly Mai, your mind is cluttered with meaningless dreams."

That stung more than it should have, thus Mai settled to look back at the winter wasteland. While the other side of the palace faced the celebrations, they had chosen to stay in a tearoom on the first floor overlooking a garden. It was bare, and dead, and held more life than her existence ever would; in fact, she doubted anything could diminish her pathetic existence even more.

October had passed under dull warfare; November had come and taken the skins of the corpses, now December embarked, blowing away nonexistent ashes. Yet still here she lay, beside tall pillars and behind luxurious oak, with a respected name and in naked velvet. Nearby, a servant bowed and presented speckled rolls in unexplainable colors. The plate of tender sushi was cut in a range of shapes and varied in flavor, but together with the combination of a neatly placed lemon piece and leafy straw, the dish resembled a lionfish.

Her sister inspected with a critical eye, so she decided to do the same with a topic she found intriguing.

The dreams could be many things. The manifestation of unspoken suicidal thoughts, the result of an unfruitful childhood and too many tea ceremonies, the depressive disdain of being engaged since the age of five, or perhaps the bird had finally come to realize just how badly they'd severed her wings. But dreams had substance, luster, something her rank did not provide.

Royalty was image and no heart, wax and clay instead of bone and flesh. Her sister was the epitome of the monster compromise could create, there, just wasting away the seconds fantasizing about expensive fabrics, foreign actors, and the measly half-an-hour garden walk they were allowed to take per day, completely alone. She had no one to whisper conspiracy, and her beck-and-call staff was composed of men far too old to engage in a proper affair with — insert sigh of resignation.

She was so tired of the artificial flavor! Where was the ripened fruit?

Suddenly, she gasped. A golden-haired jewel sparkled with fiery embers, while clasped to a brittle twig of a naked cherry blossom tree outside. The reborn dragonfly shed its larva, leaving the feathery skin as the only leaf to clothe the nude branches from the sun.

But that was not the reason for her fixed fascination. For her inability to blink. Or breathe. Or to stop a tickling adrenaline with coveting Goosebumps.

Outside this tearoom, the House of Leaves, she saw the most beautiful man she had _ever_ laid eyes on escape from her dreams and appear out of thin air.

Red pupils stared back.

.

-x-

.

He despised hallways.

They were like tiny roads, with a hollow and unprecedented end. Except for the concrete fact that eventually a speeding vehicle would crash right into you and you could either, run in denial, stand still in acceptance, or be the one driving the car.

Iruka was fatigued with pumped drugs, and growing increasingly tired of counting the lamps clinched to the walls involuntarily. It was such an obsessive compulsive idea that he even once stopped dead in his tracks, just to admire the polish of the marble walls. It was then that he noticed that if he stood perfectly motionless and squinted enough, he could actually see his reflection on the surface. But as he inspected the weak and unclear image he also realized something else — he was probably beyond therapy at this point. After that he concentrated on the carpet, but the repeating pattern below eventually made him way too nauseous.

The palace seemed to have developed in his absence, as though new sections had been added although the complete opposite was the occurrence. He had the sneaky suspicion that perhaps the handful of painkillers he took at dawn had something to do with his taking of the wrong routes.

These hallways were possibly worse than the crossings in Tokyo.

But what was even more agonizing about being lost in a place that he'd visited over a hundred times during his mediocre teaching career, was that these unnecessary moments of silence gave him time to actually think. The one thing he had been trying to avoid since his arrival, about half a day ago. But could you blame him? After eight excruciating hours of pain: the healing of two broken ribs, all ten digitals, a fractured knee, cracked ankle, and his sore left humorus (though the situation was everything but…) and a transfusion of blood, as well as some serious cold disinfecting balm dispersal — why would he want to recount how he ended up stranded inside a giant tin-trashcan above several dead bodies with missing livers and third-degree burns behind a radioactive power plant…in Beijing…?

Truthfully, mentally he had already written his letter of resignation three times. But he could never bring himself to grab a pen and actually write it. Although already into uniform slacks of ninja attire, and back on solid ground with equally sane human beings of unaltered brain cells — he was still secretly jittery while suave compose masked the outside.

And then he saw a shadow coming down the corridor.

Whenever one of the kimonoed servants passed by on chore duty he would quickly straighten his posture, nodding gentlemanly. But once they were out of view it was back to limping and quiet cursing. However, by now he couldn't care less and merely waved at the confused housekeeper and kept walking. It took all his self control to not demand directions, but his crippling pride had no surface left to inflict a bruise.

It's strange how common actions in our normal lives remind us of situations with zero resemblance. Perhaps it was the angle of circumstance, or the squeaking of the ungreased wheels, but either way, just the mere idea that he was walking in one direction while the maid wheeled a cart in the other took him back to an image of two trains bypassing one another in the tracks.

Suddenly the room evaporated and he was no longer in a lit hallway; instead he now stood in a swarming train station while glancing at the roman-numeral clock above the tunnel and waiting for the five o'clock arrival. His hands weren't perspiring anymore; they were a cold frost of tickly numb, and rough like buckskin.

Here he was on the shiny black platform of the station, waving his hands in the air as though trying to grasp reality. But his efforts proved meaningless. It's sort of like when you try to wipe the soggy mirror after taking a shower with your palm — the more you try, the worse the image becomes.

He would give anything to have the nauseating carpet back underneath his snow-damp sneakers. Thus, he kept on clawing in midair, feeling for a doorknob that never existed, until he could no longer move his arms and instead stood as a bystander watching himself. A hidden camera without a body ready to see the past unfold again; the sky of a suppressed recollection. He had never wanted to experience this type of epiphany…

…

Iruka blew out breaths, watching the misty consistency bobble in front of his lips like cloudy bubbles. Boredom was a treacherous enemy he'd crossed battlegrounds with and lost miserably countless times. So to waste the last measly minutes before the train's entrance he decided to continue his inspection of this unexplainable city, which seemed to be jam-packed in just this station.

You'd think when looking into the throngs there was a special sale somewhere of overly-big headphones, foamy-coffees, quick-witted pin festooned bags, and tanning pills (a chatting group of brown skin, mini-skirted schoolgirls jittered by wearing white lipstick and an arm's-length of bracelets). But he was in the heart of the nightlife area, the metropolis to double-takes and 'What the fuck was that?' Though, he rather enjoyed the cultural refresh. He watched one of its typical dwellers pass by: a rainbow-highlighted bundle of unkempt hair with two different colored eye contacts, tuning an electric guitar.

He absentmindedly wondered how long this Harajuku phase would last. Fashion centers alternated phases every fortnight or so, that is unless the trend became a lifestyle. And oh my god he actually knew all this…

Damn Tsunade and her constant rambling…

He snatched the top of his hoodie and pulled it down further, while shaking his head of the idea (censoring 'and mouth-watering female wiles' from his previous thought). After one last look up at the eye-straining neon lights he turned toward the graffiti-toned brick walls behind the benches, in an effort to increase his testosterone level and smother hotel memoirs. One of the gravity defying graphics resembled a goofy spirit with disproportional fangs that had secretly crawled out of a videogame. The accompanying message above said:

GHOSTS in Japan.

Iruka scoffed, rolling his eyes. Although he'd practically been forced to believe in the trickery of omens, ghosts were the parasites of illogicalness. At least the following image seemed to contain a valid message. It looked like a set of lyrics, except the characters had fallen into an unruly twister that had left them almost unreadable. He tried to decipher the tortured words…

_Kill the voice. Close your eyes. Drown in the darkness. Roam around._

…_I won't depend on anyone anymore…_

Around the words, and whirling inside the thick gusts of the tornado, were the most random objects that held no semblance to the topic: a cracked teacup with a frozen fish…a pale human kneeling in pain — with a cherry blossom tree growing out of his back…a naked goddess with the body of a human and face of a spiked alien…a rose made of water, burning in flames…a dead baby lamb hanging from a noose…scaled, plum lips without a top face, with a hook inserted in each cheek…a white tiger, covered with multicolored slugs…

Next to that one stood a caterpillar smoking something it really shouldn't be. In fact, Iruka could have probably stayed the remainder of the day just admiring the artists' clearly unstable imaginations printed illegally on government property, but the train decided to poke its metallic head out of the darkness at that very second.

He'd heard of this train, it was called 'The Bullet' or something like that. Its speed helped fund Tokyo's reputation of nostalgic velocity — which Iruka needed no more proof of, just looking around all he could see were busy little bees that'd had way too much honey.

He followed the longitude of the arriving train, and even when it stopped, it didn't seem to have a vanishing point. When the metro parked on the two-way path the plastic doors opened automatically, and passengers exited in untidy lines while others persistently tried to challenge traffic and enter quickly. This was possibly more entertaining than television…

He noticed a couple of pre-teen 'maids' sneaked inside, as well as some umbrella clutching seniors and an apprentice Geisha with a pregnant schoolgirl.

Iruka kneeled down and grabbed his book bag off the floor, before straddling it on his shoulder. He looked at the several different entrances, choosing the closest he blended into the crowds. But he only got to take six steps.

He wasn't prepared for this.

Iruka was ready to campout in beast infested forests, jump waterways and possibly climb mountains before reaching boiling temperatures and starting a wild goose chase through the food-water-hotel-less desert. But now the plan not only seemed unintelligent but completely suicidal, not for the environmental dangers or physical requirements but this…this moment…this second…because…

There he was.

In the midst of the thongs, seeming taller while standing motionless in front of the third receded doors of the center. He appeared to be captivating a deliciously devilish thought. Frozen in pause, while around him everyone meditated to play, grabbing luggage off the overhead compartments, pushing through persistently to aboard their destinations.

Isn't it bizarre how somehow the entire world is able to completely ignore one human being at one time? Because he seemed invisible to everyone except Iruka, who gripped the strap of his bag until his knuckles turned white, while watching busybodies crisscrossing rapidly — never once bumping his body or causing the most insignificant shift.

His sharp features whispered _bloodthirsty_, _curious hyper-insomnia_.

The dark god of war frenzy was observing the patrons of his ruthless army, whom ignored the idea of his existence and concentrated on their daily schedules. Yet the suggestion of his presence being overlooked or refused seemed ludicrous to Iruka. Since just from across the station his aura was unmistakable, chakra levels imminent to thunder — just imagining being an inch away from his body felt overwhelming, causing his knees to quiver, desiring to bulk, almost to bow…

The slitting eyes weren't narrowed, but held such a curving form that they seemed to be. The daunting effect was a cold rage and indifferent demeanor, hyphening the glittery dull of his now, surprisingly, bright green pupils. Said pupils were trained ahead, as though he were boring a hole through everyone's bodies and staring at the brick walls — his stare held disgust, but a routine investigation. As though residing in his least favorite restaurant, but locked in by obligatory commitment. While such a thought pulsated through Iruka, the overseeing eyes pleaded for a mouth, wanting to scream the future.

The exiting passengers were departing the station, leaving the man-made underground cave for the fresh world above and glamour of the city. The emptier the station became, the lower the temperature grew. But body warmth was the last worry on Iruka's mind, as he examined every excruciating detail of humanity's wolf.

Gaara was styled in the darkest leather, the color contrasting with his light cream-colored skin, no longer a ghastly white. The trademark eyeliner around his eyes was thinner, the perfection seemed tattooed, while the dark bags beneath contorted his appearance into aggravated vampire or over-the-edge werewolf.

The infamous character on the left side of his forehead was redrawn, thinner, with sharper and messier strokes. His wild locks looked trimmed and tamed, yet completely unsettled and long at the top; and a dark red only visible in the spurting of midnight as gushing droplets of blood. The only flesh visible through the lengthy coat was at the v-cut front which exposed two thin collarbones, yet the imprint of his arms through the fabric confessed a well-toned body.

He was scowling, but it did not seem unnatural or provoked, rational or utterly insane. The expression was worn with pride; making him unsurprisingly intimidating — yet attractive; concealed intrigue would have conceded if eyebrows embellished, thus, apathy brooded; callousness pierced but stranger's eyes still craved…

The irresistible paradox.

However, when he began to walk his body language acknowledged only one thing. **Run**. Hmm, when you think of a demon collector, what could possibly come to mind? A gothic, redheaded young adult with hands dipped in costly slacks — with a crystal, hour-glass shaped contraption on his back (yet no strap to support it against his body). Apparently, Gaara's boots weren't scratched with a single grain of sand, though Iruka could always ask the moaning hands scratching the surface of his floating 'shopping bag', though he doubted the bodies attached to them were human.

In fact, Gaara could probably blend right into a Harajuku crew, and he wasn't even trying!

Perhaps he wasn't real, but no time for wishful thinking was left. How did that foreign song go? (I) Took the midnight train going anywhere? Hah! …Wouldn't that be nice?

While captured in his examination trance Iruka had failed to notice that the station was now utterly deserted, except for a random eastern gust that whisked, causing several discarded newspapers on the floor to swivel in wind avalanches. All the awaiting passengers had crammed into The Bullet, chitchatting or falling asleep against the windows, sitting with cluttering groceries or standing and holding handles.

Yet, although he was the only person in his way, and standing only three feet away when he passed his body, Gaara merely walked by without any interest at all in his person.

Then the plastic doors closed and the train began its originating sluggish course.

How awkward. Now Iruka felt invisible. As he struggled to unravel his tongue, Gaara was walking away, to inhabit another remote corner of the earth (like a nonexistent forest or the inside of a volcano with his credentials…) — yet Iruka hadn't muttered a single word to stop him, to voice his intentions.

Nevertheless he had the intuitive thought that Gaara knew exactly what was going on, although his eyes had never once traveled to his body. But what else could bring the nightly hunter out at daytime? Yet could Iruka take such a risky chance? Would he allow astonishment to muddle rational thinking?

Lights from the opposite tunnel shone through the darkness, the second train would arrive on the other track at the exact same time the first exited the station.

Iruka took a deep breath and turned abruptly, staring at Gaara's retreating back. "Gaa…"

…

Iruka leaned against the hallway wall with his hands, shakily panting, and watching a drip of sweat sliding off the tip of his nose, before it splattered onto the floor. The sound wasn't inaudible though. The second the drop hit the marble all Iruka could hear was scrapping metal. And then the loudest pounding, while at the same time a shrieking bellow that sounded like a nail-meeting-board, only a thousand times worse. It was like a stuck record, only that the sole thing you had access to was the raspy volume.

…

Iruka choked on the name.

The frightening feeling of nails scrapping the back of his neck sparked a sudden memory, that warned him that such letters weren't allowed in that particular order — let alone being spoken aloud. _The anaconda, an animal that falls casualty to its own quest for power, _he felt as though she was behind him and whispering in his ear, _it sheds its skin, it sheds its name._

And then fate danced, or more aptly put, 'let loose'.

While walking towards the withered concrete steps of the exit, Gaara released his right hand from his coat pocket, each long finger clad with a ruby-scented ring, and did a swift twirl motion — a sort of beckoning gesture giving permission — and the next couple of seconds Iruka is unable to place in the correct order (and doubts he will ever be able to).

One moment the crystal hourglass had handprints; the next, white distorted bodies were escaping through. Furious ghosts of hell-bound creatures struggled to depart first, as monstrous claws dipped into the black concrete platform and misshapen bodies crawled out of the sand-less timepiece, leaving cracks on the ground equivalent to three smashes of an iron hammer wielded by Kami.

They stretched their bodies once out of their prison, freeing thorny claws and opening their second jaws, releasing howls and shrieks of cringing madness. Some smashed into the wall, as though trying to scratch their burned bodies and ripped flesh, becoming excited with the growing cracks — with the raining dust. They were intent on wreaking havoc. Insane demons with light-speed reflexes chewing on their own skin, shivering in pain while their tissues changed to a solid consistency and their pores released boiling mist that rooted blisters and blackened dead crust. All missing the same distinct feature, eyes.

Iruka involuntarily gasped and all too quickly he became their primary focus. They immediately stopped their theatrical rebirth, shifting their positions towards his location, several yards in front of the tracks. Iruka held his breath, afraid that the slightest budge might be his last. But the damage was irrevocable.

In the blink of an eye they were sprinting towards him, like shaggy dogs with waterfalls of saliva dripping down their mandibles, with toad-like tongues ready to stick to his chest and slash the compartment from his body altogether.

They came from all sides — left — right — front — running upside-down on the mingy ceiling (…upside-down shadows on the ceiling…such vague déjà vu flooded his mind, reality not sinking in…). Iruka shook his hands, and ten crisp daggers appeared beneath each digital as he took an agitated fighting stance in the midst of his panic.

They were in midair now. Above him. Ready to jump on his body.

Iruka was practically kneeling by now, eyes scanning the premises madly for the first blow. But before they could land upon him half their bodies began to disappear and they sprung what seemed like heavy tails of fog. They swirled around him, laughing maniacally in hysteria — pushing him from all directions and scratching his body in unprotected places, tattering his clothing and sprinkling blood into the air.

Iruka felt his feet leave the ground, as hot claws grabbed his ankles and pushed him towards the brick ceiling. His body crashed against the concrete, and then he was falling back down before a wave of air pushed him back up again like an invisible trampoline.

The frenzy only withstood a few seconds and then they were gone, evaporated in the snap of two fingers that no one delivered. Iruka exploded onto the ground, releasing a grunt of pain when he felt some of his joints cracking at the impact.

Instinctively, he struggled back to his feet, ignoring the heated throbbing pulsating through him. He shivered while looking around edgily, still clinging to the slashed daggers. They were nowhere to be seen, except for their master, Gaara, who stood quite still in front of the brick wall, looking up at the street-styled bold letters promising _GHOSTS in Japan_ in red graffiti.

At that second, Iruka understood…

Since Gaara walked into this station the result was destined destruction. He felt the wave of cold air hit him hard from behind and turned just in time to see…tracks break…wheels turn…and trains meet…

It was like watching twin brothers caught in a death grip with two chainsaws.

All flames, as a white fog wielded the wheels and turned the trains — ghosts dented the sides and pushed the back of them to turn two into one. It was like a child with a toy train in his hand, flinging it heartless, hearing the rubble of the plastic dolls as they smashed against each other, the comic crackling of shattered bone…

Iruka fell to his knees just as the first explosion blew up the middle passenger box. He closed his eyes, prepared for the consuming flames and awaiting blaze. But the anticipated death never came. A glittery smog sprang up from the ground, the crystal glass separating him from the tracks like an indestructible shield. A giant window in a way, the other side consumed by fire and demons. Iruka felt as though he were in a glasshouse — outside laid the fiery desert of Hell; beneath the pool of blood was so massive that it allowed for the entire reflection of the trains to hollow the surface, the leaking river repainting the silver trains.

Iruka watched them as they resurfaced from the bloody water, and crawled onto the crushed metal remains. He watched one in specific, as the creature ripped a door off its hinges and slid inside the compartment only to return a few seconds later, not alone. Its fingers were intertwined in an unconscious woman's hair, as he dragged her to the side of the train, which now served as the top.

Iruka's eyes widened as he watched the creature's sharp nails go through the woman's skin, not rupturing a cell, before looming upwards, while clinging to a white replica of the woman. She was screaming in hot tears, with blood running down her face, her hand outstretched towards him in plea…

Iruka looked down, unable to take anymore.

That was when the screaming began, although he knew that every single passenger was long dead.

He looked behind him, noticing that Gaara had decided to part out into Tokyo. Never once turning, he had walked away from the catastrophic scene leaving Iruka as the only surviving witness. He had merely brought his pets here for lunch, an all you can eat Soul-Buffet — a local detour.

Iruka knew of a more appropriate title for the young Prince of Demons.

Of course, Konoha had just contracted the Grim Reaper.

…

Iruka didn't notice he was absentmindedly walking until he smacked, forehead first, right into a wall. Oh, how anticlimactic. He rubbed his nose delicately, examining the hallway that divided into two others, one right and the other left.

Which extreme to take?

"Story of my life…" he muttered through clenched teeth, while trying to sort his hectic memories separately in an effort to find the reminiscence entitled "Map of Konoha Palace". His instincts inclined him towards the left, where an elegant wooden door with inviting brass knobs shaped like dragon heads stood.

His rational thinking told him to run as fast as he could through the right hallway.

His survival after-thought advised that the most appropriate move was to buy a plane ticket and feign amnesia.

Iruka turned left and walked toward the imperial suite while trying to wash away his latest divine manifestation. Although he finally understood why Tsunade did not enjoy speaking of him (Gaara seemed like the type of 'individual' to taboo his name), Iruka wished that his hellish curiosity would stop taking him places that only doctor-prescribed medications could bring him back from.

He slowed his steps, pondering whether the Hokage would ask how his latest journey went in detail. Unfortunately if such a question came to play the Tokyo subway soiree did not end at the demonic massacre. That place was more like the roots that led to the equally psychotic leaves of genetic venom.

But he could always delay with another enticing tale, perhaps he could start with, "As for Ino…"

Iruka cringed. Ugh, Ino…

Iruka had met a lot of psychotic bitches in his lifetime (Tsunade included) but that blonde took the prize. His encounter with her was a mix of acrophobia, hydrophobia, agoraphobia, and eventually the development of full blown misogyny.

_Hinata wasn't in that category. She lay in the 'Things-That-Should-Not-Be-Mentioned' file buried in his outcaste subconscious. _

Iruka had been jogging through the harbor at the dead of midnight, scanning the monochromatic rows of towed fishermen boats in the pier in neatly filed lines. Following his rather entertaining interview with Tsunade he'd missed one of his employer's targets prior to her animated jailbreak.

And then he caught sight of the most peculiar event, which immediately slowed his pace to an abrupt stop. Just mere yards from shore was a metallic war craft, a military vessel over a hundred feet in height with menacing cannons and gallant sails swiveling with the minty ocean breeze, and floating peacefully over the hard chilling frost of the ocean. But what was even more abnormal about having such a monstrosity of firepower in the pier of a fisherman's village was the line of sea crewmen utterly naked standing on the fringe. And then they all began to dip into the water, in almost perfect choreography, as though in the midst of a diving competition. Iruka was about to turn, afraid of what these men could possibly be planning next, when he spotted the source of the fiasco.

_It_ just so happened to be standing on the tip of the bow. It just so happened to be grinning from ear to ear, while waving a bottle of tequila in the air (reminding him of his 'escape to Mexico' comment), and pointing a cutlass down at the water towards the freezing men coating their chests with wrapped arms.

She closed an eye and bellowed in a gruff male voice. _"Aargh! Shiver me timbers! These scallywags have walked the plank!"_

The nude crewmen looked at one another, utterly clueless.

Ino sighed loudly, rolling her eyes. "You're dead. Tell anyone about this and I'll slit your throats. Now get the fuck out of here."

Things only got weirder after that…

Iruka stopped in front of the closed door, listening for any type of commotion on the other side. Deciding that he could only delay the inevitable for so long he wrapped his knuckle firmly and brought it up to knock loudly. It was a mere inch from the wood when the doors parted in unison and blinding sunlight provoked him to use his palm to shield from the sudden exposure.

The young servant exiting the suite bowed kindly before departing with the tray of teacups, and leaving the doors widely open. Iruka glanced inside, easily recognizing the décor after his eyes adjusted to the warm rays of the evening sun.

The Hokage stood in front of the balcony railing, looking up at the papier-mâché dragons floating below the light pink and lilac clouds. Around him three female tailors where finishing last minute stitch etchings on the hems of his sleeves and flowing cloak.

Although his back was turned to him, the Hokage's voice was the first he heard. "Ah Iruka, I was beginning to worry that you might have gotten lost." The Hokage swayed his face to look at him, his expression teasing.

Iruka found his thoughts wavering unevenly…

So after swimming towards the metallic ship, climbing up the side ladder, and landing on deck, Iruka found himself in the depraved hands of Captain Ino (who apparently could now add 'Pirate' to her hallmark of discrepancies). After being tied to a post with thick rope in the luxurious control room, he'd watched Ino happily steering the ship away from land and out into the open sea while clad in a tri-cornered hat, with a suspiciously thin cigarette over her right ear, and singing that stereotypical pirate song in drunken lust.

"You have got to be fucking kidding me…" he muttered, trying to hold down the excessive amounts of alcohol he'd consumed at the zakaya but only partly succeeding.

Iruka was beyond seasick, beyond the Japanese shores, beyond sand-friction rashes, and beyond beach buoys…

The Hokage excused the tailors with a flick of his wrist, and they quickly gathered their yarns and scissors before disappear out of view and closing the door behind them. "How was your trip?" he asked genuinely, pulling up his collar and walking down the three simple steps that led to the balcony.

Iruka looked around uneasily. "…fine…"

He hoped it sounded convincing.

"Good, good." The Hokage's eyes traveled to the lit fireplace, scanning for an object he'd misplaced. "I trust you didn't get into too much trouble with Tsunade." He chided kindly, giving him a coy look and then gathering what seemed like a timber plank with messy clipped papers from the low table next to the display of ancestral swords.

"No more than the usual." Again, he hoped it sounded believable.

He looked out into the beautiful scenery present through the balcony. Crimson petals raining down as animalistic kites grazed the skyline like shallow birds perking their feathers. The whole ordeal almost seemed like a performance at a circus.

Circus…

Iruka felt as though he'd just been swallowed by the ground beneath him, a downward spiral swiveled around him until a sudden spotlight hit him with even more intensity than the sun previously. Stage lights surrounded him from above, as though he were the star of a show, all eyes on him, anticipating his latest move…

It took him a moment to realize that he was standing on the black platform of the train station again. The expectant eyes were Gaara's pets, which licked their bloody mouths with satisfaction — the flickering neon lights above reminded him of his struggling breath, of his tachycardia, of the dripping blood running down his forearms.

He didn't break eye contact with them as he walked towards the glittery glass that was probably the only reason for his survival. He jumped down onto the tracks, knees this time dipping into blood instead of flooding water. Turning his back on the curious creatures he walked into the dark tunnel, hearing the sound of ghostly applause behind him.

_Club Royksopp. Sola._

Tsunade's voice seemed to have replaced Hinata's in his deaf ears, reminding him of the address she had provided before her untimely departure. He heard them splashing back into the water, stalking him from behind as though teasing their prey. But he still didn't turn and eventually the splattering stopped as he walked deeper into the tunnel way, the blood underneath him evaporating into nothing.

Around him the only glow came from the light graffiti on the walls, emitting a flushing shine from the yellow tint of radiance.

How could he possibly forget his meeting with the confidentially bonded twins, Tenten and Neji? They were the reason he was cruising a train track in pitch blackness, the reason he located a secret steal door about a mile into the tunnel, the reason his ten digitals would probably be crooked till the age of forty.

"I'm sorry for my petty hospitality but we're running late as it is, perhaps you can entertain me with your cleverly disguised memoirs when we arrive at the Eastern Hall?" The Hokage smiled warmly, making Iruka's shoulder's slump in surrender — apparently he couldn't lie or keep a train of thought intact. "Please take this with you; I insisted that you'd be the host for the evening. I need someone that won't stop breathing every time the doors reopen."

The glamorous clipboard was shoved into Iruka's hands before he could retaliate in any form. "_Host?_" He repeated in horror.

Iruka felt as though he was on a tall, round pedestal under a circus tent — a gloved hand high in the air before bowing mockingly at the crowd of eager spectators. "Ladies and Gentlemen welcome to the show!" he greeted gallantly. Looking back up, he was suddenly in Royksopp. The music blasting off massive stereos above the club, blinding lights crisscrossing the dance floor in a nauseating pattern, shelves upon shelves of liquor behind the bar running around the entire premises.

Bodies on the pool tables. Bodies piercing the chandeliers overhead. Bodies on the bar tables. Bodies on the floor around ecstasy pills. Bodies draped over plushy sofas. Dead bodies everywhere around the circus-styled club…

And Iruka stood in the center, under the main lights, in numb shock.

It took him no time to locate the decapitated metallic heads of the Razors hanging in the dart shooting area, a neatly placed note in placid cursive incrusted with a penknife to one of their foreheads.

_Mission Accepted._

_Toodles,_

_Tenten_

The Hokage walked by him towards the newly opened doors, already gracing the hallway. "I would do it myself but I'm afraid I'll hardly be able to keep a straight face." He informed Iruka, when the agitated ninja caught up just as they made a turn into the next hall — Iruka looked pale and held on to the walls for support, afraid of getting sidetracked and ramming into another wall.

"I don't think I'm in the best mental state to prep up an audience." Iruka confessed, looking down at the clipboard in his hands and examining the contents. His shoes squealed against the marble when his feet glued to the ground. "…I can't do this." He admitted in exasperation, but the Hokage was already turning into another hallway.

They had arrived without his slightest notice. No. Not Neji and Tenten. The reason his encounter with them was so memorable was because it ended in bloody pain for him and he was never even in the same mile radius as the demonic duo. The Razors' loyal gang crew had showed up, and finding Iruka as the only surviving witness immediately categorized him as the killer. All he truly remembers is being pulled down and watching the steal bat as it was rammed against his broken fingers over and over again. He was left in a pool of blood, left for dead that is.

Iruka finally caught up to the Hokage, waving the clipboard in the air. "Sire, I'm truly honored that you're giving me this position but as seeing who our uninvited guests are going to be…I don't think I can feign credible enthusiasm."

"Precisely, I need you to zest up the introductions — inform the audience of the latest arrival." The Hokage continued his speedy pace, either ignoring or pretending not to notice Iruka's petrified stare.

"It might give the Council heart attacks." Iruka tried feebly.

"We can only hope…"

Iruka stopped walking again, the excited rumble of drums blasting off at full force in his eardrums. It was the exhilarating conclusion of the show, he was in the cannon now — ready to blast off into the rainbow, over heaven, never to land on earth again.

He didn't really remember limping away from his own almost crime-scene, but the next clear recollection was of him pushing up a very heavy lid — which turned out to be a sewage tin. Apparently he'd found the least appealing exit out of underground Royksopp; the secrete sewage pump which planted his feeble form in front of an abandoned factory in a dimly lit street with only one lamp post and the intense odor of dead fish.

He was still holding on to the lid above him, only his face in the vicinity of the road, when a speeding bright yellow Ferrari convertible squealed to a stop merely a foot in front of him. Iruka gulped down a knot in his throat, unable to look up as he watched a very slender, appealing leg exit the car, followed by another equally exposed one. He could see nothing above the mini-skirt in hot denim.

"Need a ride sweetie?" a sensual voice asked, as the female kneeled down and Iruka was catered to a very clear look at the top of her cleavage.

Iruka looked at the Hokage's retreating back, feeling like a reproachful child. "Are you positive it has to be them? I've seen what they can do…" he affirmed.

The Hokage finally stopped, giving Iruka a bitter side-glance. "On the contrary Iruka, you have no idea what they're capable of."

Temari had smirked down at him, lowering her designer shades to rest on the tip of her nose. "Aw, you look lost little puppy. You look like you could use a warm reception." She assured, flinging the lid away from his hands with a kick from her five-inch heels.

Iruka felt dumbstruck, yet his body didn't really get the memo since he was hauling himself upwards towards the street before he could mutter _'what the fuck can hit me next?!'_ His knees quivered when he stood up straight, and he hadn't even caught sight of her vehicle's passengers yet.

"You don't mind riding in the back do you? I need to make a little delivery, it won't take long." Temari was already in the driver's seat, impatiently tapping her manicured fingertips on her rearview mirror and checking out her reflection.

Iruka's eyes traveled to the passenger seat — where a blue rotting corpse with an opened mouth stared into the night sky lifelessly. Then his gaze shifted to the backseat, the middle seat empty but the other two filled with green-looking carcasses that had to be at least a week old.

Iruka blinked and opened his mouth to say 'no thank you' in every single language he spoke (…in truth he only spoke one…). But then a sudden thought struck him. Anger a serial killer or ride in a car with three rotting corpses and the most horrendous smell invading your nostrils?

Let's just say that after the first mile, he stopped caring that their twisted, broken necks continued making their heads fall on his shoulders.

Iruka sighed while they walked down the stone steps of the entrance, before they took a right through an open terrace in front of a snow smothered garden. The surrounding was like the inside of a music box, but his cynical thoughts would only allow him to think about the more than enough content he had to create a zesty prologue. If anything, he'd have trouble editing unnecessary material. Of course, Temari was the reason he'd somehow landed in Beijing. He already had his opening line for her: _This bitch is dangerous!_

The Hokage stopped suddenly, for the second time, although they were behind schedule. Iruka looked down self-consciously, thinking he'd stepped on his cloak. But the Hokage's eyes were wavering towards the frozen pond to their left, where iced fishes were stilled with death in the cooled water. Iruka followed his gaze, noting that specifically his pupils were trained on the steps leading up towards the path next to the pond.

Iruka was unaware of it at the moment, but he was standing in front of the House of Leaves.

"Hell has opened its gates to release its favorite angel…" The Hokage murmured, placing his golden lit pipe on the corner of his thin mouth. A curving ghost of fume died in a feeble puff…

Iruka's breathing ceased.

A raven black spike appeared at the top of the cracking staircase. The wind picked up abruptly, crashing mercilessly into the few cherry blossoms clinging to the old fig trees above the steps. Pink, helpless tears rained down under the light of dusk…

Red-Crown Cranes skipped off the snow and bolted into quiet flight out of the deserted garden.

The Hokage's only real eye watered under the intense airstream while he watched the dawning sundown, the sun itself peeking at him from behind the clouds secretly. "Marooned unto earth, clipped of his wings — welcome back Sasuke Uchiha." He whispered in discontent.

The jingle of frailty was hummed by the rustling petals, but the delicate lullaby was broken unexpectedly by the crashing of expensive glass. The shattering of teacups. The nervous tapper of wooden shoes, an exasperated wail utterly ignored, the scratching of a sliding door — the mere passing of a second — and then a vibrant kimono was running through the opened paper doors in front of the pond.

"Mai!"

Mai's naked feet dug into the freezing snow, hands clamped around the fabric of her kimono to allow her legs easy passage, the delicate lace tail moistening harshly. Her chest rose and descended rapidly, mouth agape in an effort to huff evenly. She stopped right in back of an inhumanly still Iruka, her slender fingers curling on top of her racing heart to quiet its cries. Her ornate chignon had come undone, strands of hair getting caught in her trembling lips, her hair ornaments lost in the density of the shallow snow.

"Mai!" June ran with difficulty towards her sister in annoyed alertness, her shoes sinking into the snow. "What on earth are you doing?" She demanded once she reached her, grasping one of her shoulders and shaking her slightly to awaken her from (what seemed like) a wakeful trance. "Mai?"

Mai was breathing hard, pale as a ghost, yet her eyes were shining with anticipation.

"Princess June! Princess Mai!" called an elderly servant who tumbled towards them clumsily, along with the rest of their rushing entourage.

June rolled her eyes, clawing her hand around her forehead. "She's fine. She's just having one of her delusional episodes again. Mai, I swear to Kami…" Mai grabbed her jaw suddenly and turned her face in the direction she was still looking. June's expression fell flat, along with her jaw.

Sasuke finally stepped down onto the path, shoes crushing the weak blossoms.

The pale glow of his skin exaggerated the supernatural infatuation of his bloody pupils, whose glossy luster made Iruka feel as though he were looking at the most reproachful mirror. Such dark intensity, it was an overpowering glare challenging you to look away first, yet captivating your interest almost erotically. The sensitivity of thought would leave you wondering and debating whether you were being tested, and if you were passing said trial or shredding expectations. It was a demonic confrontation that seemed to contain no wrong or right moves, only gestures to sink you deeper into fear…into unknown absurdity…

Lucidity faded under such a glare. Iruka felt as though utterly lost in a burning building, paralyzing fear holding him still in the heart of the burning wreckage. Or perhaps he was a ghost standing in the fast lane of a highway, being passed through consecutively by both vehicles and people. He felt insignificant, dangling on the edge of a cliff, wishing an escape from this fathomable dread and finding suicide irresistibly appealing…

He felt spiritually drained, stripped of deism, breathless, daring, infected with some overwhelming emotion without a name, what tasteless ecstasy…

Mai struggled to calm her breathing but the flooding sense of importance seeped through her quivering veins. The sense of premonition, of a final destination gripping at the strings of fate — there laid significance in the details of the black flames floating in his indescribable eyes, in the shrieking of the wind and crashing of her brain. _Dark revolutions. Transparent violence. The innate orgasm of reincarnation._ Such feelings swelled her wounded heart, scratching at her uneasiness, yelling at her incoherence. Was it possible that her dream was about him? This stranger whose eyes kept her a voluntary prisoner desiring more?

She felt like a corpse on a cold morning's bed, yet, she'd never felt so alive at the same time.

The elderly servant fell to her knees and released a bloodcurdling scream.

The sweet talk of the moment was gone.

Iruka had felt as though he'd been injected with multiple tranquilizer shots, easing his muscles to an almost jelly texture, but now his body was revoking the effect — wanting to convulse. He knew what had happened, he'd felt this way before. It was the equivalence of being stabbed in the chest with an adrenaline booster. Your body has a few seconds to drown in shock, before hypertension kicks in, everything contracts to such a speed that you feel like an over congested roadway…

Wired to a set of dynamites underneath your frame.

And then you detonate…

_Holy fuck_, he was standing in the presence of Sasuke Uchiha. _The_ Sasuke Uchiha.

If he'd considered Gaara's presence forthcoming to a vampire's brute sexuality, then Sasuke was fucking **Dracula**…

Iruka wondered if that's what happens when your heart transforms into a dark hole and you embrace damnation, when your body becomes a lethal tool for massacre — do you ooze physical charisma? Do you creep at the shadows of temptation and evolve into a solid intoxication that demands constant gawking? Do you become the final treat at the bottom of the cookie jar? Are you the perfect shaped pawn inviting the reproachful _checkmate_?

Hah, the King of Shadowplay.

Sasuke was slowly closing the space between them, his gaze confessing nothing, eyebrows knitted downward in casual irritation. His chin-length bangs brushed lightly against his angular cheeks, while other short strands graced his forehead — or they would have, if not covered by a white gauze absent of bloodstains. He was styled in a loose-fitting long-sleeved vest tinted an ambiguous lavender. His abdomen was also wrapped in the same gauze, allowing only the top toned muscles of his chest disclosure.

His wooden sandals gently patted the stone beneath.

Iruka swallowed a spiked lump, drinking in the rest of the young apprentice's appearance.

A blood-red velvet sash was tied around his waist, and served as the hoist for his flowing black pants. But perhaps the most intriguing feature of his wardrobe were the pinkish scarlet splatters that resembled painted blood blemishes adorning his vest — Iruka received the most contorted mental image of slaughtered cherry blossoms.

Sasuke seemed like the embodiment of someone who would not be able to answer the simplest question on earth — _what's it like being human?_ — But be able to reply with dark simplicity to the most intricate inquiries about humanity's anachronism beyond the gates of Hell.

The curse mark on his neck intimidated even Mai's improper staring.

Such an enigma, a cross between pain and slashing delivery, and the softness of feather-tip features. With what purpose could have Orochimaru, the legendary serpent, evoked Sasuke into his merciless cult and shared the intimate secrets of spiritual incarceration?

It was common knowledge that blood-signed contracts were filth in his presence, and only true sacrifice satisfied his suspicions. Although Sasuke's name was banned from public discussion and even utterance at the puniest exposure, for years now at the drunken hour numerous genins and senseis discussed amongst themselves in overcrowded bars — what could have Sasuke Uchiha offered Orochimaru to become the second half of his un-beating heart?

What was the true price of power?

"_SNAKES!"_

Iruka released a high-pitched squeal and fell back against the wall.

The Hokage simply blinked, unimpressed, as he stared at the upside down figure hanging from the pillar structure above the garden and continued to quietly smoke his pipe.

The new intruder pouted, obviously displeased at his reaction.

Iruka was breathing out loudly, chest rising at a dangerous rate. His back was smashed against the wall, hands braced in front of his face in fright and retaliation. Holy shit, when did he turn into such a pussy? The bundle of unkempt red hair in front of him was twisted in queasy knots as the young female gave him a sway look of dominance. Her locks were so vibrantly scarlet that for a second Iruka had thought someone was hurling a bucket of blood out of one of the windows above. But he knew the real reason he'd nearly just clawed his way through a wall — the mentioning of snakes made him think that Hinata had come back, to finish _the job_…

He cracked his knuckles while straightening, and to think, three months till his next vacation.

Karin flipped through the air, landing perfectly on her shiny leather boots, which gave Iruka the eerie feeling of Tsunade's teenage gothic slut days. She swung her hair back with her knuckles while smirking up at him. "Whose my bitch?" she retorted, laughing cynically. She blocked Sasuke out of view, which made Iruka really nervous, perhaps more nervous than the thought that he was seriously scrutinizing her outfit and found it equivalent to a murderous secretary on the run.

She was wearing a clerical long-sleeved shirt in white, with a cut that allowed an immodest amount of cleavage air space. Her wild spiky tresses ended just above said breasts, while a second cut began just in the middle of her midriff. This followed by equally glossy leather shorts that left little to the imagination, add simple black rimmed glasses and you've got yourself a trained psychopath.

"Your highness," Karin brought a hand to her heart dramatically and bowed to the Hokage. "It is a pleasure to serve under your rule and be relished under your hospitality."

The Hokage opened his mouth and released a cloud of smoke, then waved to the heavens. "There goes the feeble peace in the last couple of days…" he announced, continuing to wave.

Karin placed a hand on her hip, and copped her ear with the other as she examined the Hokage's ministration. It was then that Iruka noticed the silver wire earwrap in the shape of a snake, incrusted with opals and diamonds.

A much colder laugh resonated from above, and Iruka's eyes immediately swarmed towards the overhead trees; an instinctive duty to protect the Hokage at all costs brewing. The figure turned out to be sitting on the bark of a maple tree, a monstrous sword resting on his lap as he caressed its edge with a gloved hand.

Suigetsu looked down at the Hokage with amusement, smile widening and revealing abnormally sharp dentures that seemed more appropriate on a seaside predator. His eyes held no pupil, but were merely a whitish green that reminded Iruka of pond water in rainy May. He was dressed entirely in black, leather gloves and all, with a thicker armor above his chest that also transformed into a lengthy trench coat. The armor material seemed like rough animal skin, a panther's perhaps, but such prey would be too simple and tedious. Nevertheless, Iruka refrained from thinking of what he could have possibly truly killed — and what kind of ghost he'd unleashed unto earth by doing so…

"Don't patronize, Karin." Suigetsu warned, jumping down towards the path and placing the sword in the sheath on his back. "Royal blood is rare, and must be respected." He declared, removing long bangs from his left eye; though his tone wasn't damped with admiration.

Iruka tensed, noting the proximity between the two 'guests' and the Hokage. He was about to move forward when a third member walked out from behind the pillar in front of him. Jugo stretched a hand against the pillar and leaned against it, orbs trained on him. The same eyes as Suigetsu gazed back cruelly, and Iruka absentmindedly wonder why Karin was the only one with brown eyes. He would have examined Jugo's attire more specifically other than the fact that he was wearing a long-collared, one-sleeve shirt with a flowing tail, overly large belt and too tight leather pants with strange shaped boots but the sun escaped from the clouds grasp at that very second.

And a demanding shadow dyed the stone.

Sasuke was merely feet from them now, practically standing behind his colleges of dark craft. He turned then, never stopping his pace, and walked onto the garden's snow, headed towards the Eastern Hall. They followed soon afterwards, spinning around without another word and following their pack leader.

"By all means, lead the way." The Hokage said, smirking slightly. Iruka wrinkled his nose, the look in the Hokage's eye — it twinkled with an absorbent emotion. Itching guilt. It was obvious he knew something, something he refused to share, something that perhaps even Sasuke was unaware of, and something that probably Iruka himself had helped him accomplish. Iruka wondered if there was any way of erasing all traces of his handiwork in this entire ordeal. Sasuke didn't seem like the forgiving overlord type…

"Sire," Iruka thought there was no better moment to break the news. He watched some of the other servants help the elderly maid off the snow, as she trembled in hefty tears. "Not all of your invited guests might come. I…sort of…didn't get a chance to speak with Gaara."

_He seemed preoccupied with feeding me to a hungry pack of savage demons_, Iruka screeched mentally.

The Hokage closed his eyes in quiet meditation. "Fate always finds a way…" He opened them and looked at Iruka. "I selfishly have one more request."

Iruka couldn't contain the sigh. "Sire?"

"I want you to name our army as well. Try not to use the word demonic, no matter how appropriate it seems." He jested, before following the almost out-of-view figures of the first appointed four.

"Princess Mai, please put these shoes on. You'll get hypothermia!"

"Princess June, are you feeling alright? You look sick."

Iruka tried to ignore the servants' nervous banter. "Huh, how about _My Worst Nightmare_?" he tried aloud, watching the distant figures with hidden chakras, especially the raven haired demon with a clasped black sword on his scarlet sash. He kneeled down and grabbed the clipboard off the ground; then took out a small pencil from his pocket and began scribbling down some introductions.

The Hokage glanced towards the cracking staircase.

Strangely, three years ago, on those very steps, three best friends first met. One was a jubilant dreamer, set on accomplishing that which had never been done. Another was a darker soul, bent on revenge and the satisfaction of burring the skeletons and demons of his past. The last was…an undecided warrior, broken in two, the halves quarreling with the same intensity as her other two teammates. And today, only one walked down those steps. Only one reigned _victorious_…

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-x-

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	7. Memoirs of the Departed — Prt 3

** Forward**

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This much I'm certain of: it doesn't happen immediately. You'll finish and that will be that, until a moment will come, maybe in a month, maybe a year, maybe even several years. You'll be sick or feeling troubled or deeply in love or quietly uncertain or even content for the first time in your life. It won't matter. Out of the blue, beyond any cause you can trace, you'll suddenly realize things are not how you perceived them to be at all. For some reason, you will no longer be the person you believed you once were. You'll detect slow and subtle shifts going all around you, more importantly shifts in you. Worse, you'll realize it's always been shifting, like a shimmer of sorts, a vast shimmer, only dark like a room. But you won't understand why or how. You'll have forgotten what granted you this awareness in the first place.

Then no matter where you are, in a crowded restaurant or on some desolate street or even in the comforts of your own home, you'll watch yourself dismantle every assurance you ever lived by. You'll stand aside as a great complexity intrudes, tearing apart, piece by piece, all of your carefully conceived denials, whether deliberate or unconscious. And then for better or worse, you'll turn, unable to resist, though try to resist you still will, fighting with everything you've got not to face the thing you most dread, what is now, what will be, what has always come before, the creature you truly are, _the creature we all are_, buried in the nameless black of a name.

And then the nightmares will begin.

_Excerpts by_

_Mark Z. Danielewski_

_House of Leaves_

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_"But I don't want to go among mad people," Alice remarked._

"_Oh, you can't help that," said the Cat. "We're all mad here. I'm mad. You're mad."_

"_How do you know I'm mad?" said Alice._

"_You must be," said the Cat, "or you wouldn't have come here."_

_Alice didn't think that proved it at all; however, she went on. "And how do you know that you're mad?"_

"_To begin with," said the Cat, "a dog's not mad. You grant that?"_

"_I suppose so," said Alice._

"_Well, then," the Cat went on, "you see, a dog growls when it's angry, and wags its tail when it's pleased. Now I growl when I'm pleased, and wag my tail when I'm angry. Therefore I'm mad."_

_.Lewis Carroll. (Alice in Wonderland)_

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**Chapter Seven**

**Memoirs of the Departed**

—**Part Three**—

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The Eastern Hall was crafted in the heart of the palace's botanical gardens.

A lonely coliseum with an opera distortion of beauty. It sprang marble flooring with indefinite textures, round endless patterns resembling star-coated galaxies or the chalked, scrawny writing on the walls of a witch's tattered hut. A glassy light brown with sprinkled black. The first floor was merely a glamorous hallway of portraits, all traditional water-colored paintings dating back to unrecorded times. Each triple the size of a home door, yet they merely seemed average sized when compared to the entrance gate: twin six hundred pound doors with carved structures of fire breathing dragons, engaged in mortal combat with old warriors and sharpened swords.

The space between the opposing walls was massive, a mere whimper echoed back with the thumping of a crashing vase thrown from the third story. The golden frames served as the walls, exposing not an inch of the actually ones. In fact, the hallway itself could have passed as a mere enchanting tearoom where you'd invite prominent guests to inflict burning jealousy except that one look up would reveal that there were so many undiscovered secrets roaming about…

For once, the front border of the room held an enormous pedestal of blue-green marble, divided in the center with seven simple and delicate steps leading up to a lavish throne. The throne was woven in red silk, with handrests in the shape of dragonheads. Beside it and on each side laid three other thrones, these silver instead of gold and carved into similar compositions. Behind them rested stained glass of narrow windowpanes, yet the tint of the painted rosebuds was so thick that no sunlight could seep through the crystal.

On either side of the thrones there were two imperial spiral staircases with tall railings leading up towards the second and third stories. The second story itself was this evening brimming with eager spectators who crammed towards the balconies between the pillars to stare down onto what was considered the arena, or perhaps even stage.

This level was filled with both mere civilians and accomplished ninjas, all clapping with excitement and throwing down flowing rose petals. Between them lay black attired individuals with grim faces, the stern bodyguards of the councilmen whom inspected the premises, stealthy shinobi. The third floor was overflowing with the same enthusiastic jitter and casual conversation, friends talking amongst each other about a hopeful tomorrow, or pointing down and whispering doubts.

The ceiling was breathtaking; a lining of bright lights ran across it while an angelic chandelier practically fifty feet in length dangled in the center, baby candles lighting the tips.

Hikaru watched the raining petals through his wineglass while brushing his fingertips softly against it. The stout rings around his fingers glittered under the intense lighting but he tried to ignore the distracting effect. However, he wasn't entirely succeeding, especially since the hyped beating of the ceremonial drums from above wouldn't allow him to hear even his own thoughts clearly.

The other five councilmen talked amongst each other, untroubled, and toasting about obscene stupidities. But Hikaru's eyes were trained on the opened entrance doors, impatiently waiting for the grand arrival of the Hokage. Unlike the ignorant fools next to him he knew the old man's tricks usually rooted much deeper than superficial damage. Of course, at first they had all been furious and appalled when they found their competition disrupted by lowly criminals and savage fighters but the rules of the game left little room to argue.

They needed the best of the best. These individuals were practically suicidal, sheer brute strength, not to mention dispensable. Unfortunately, Hikaru also found them easy to manipulate and influence by the other side. He was disgusted with the Hokage's sneaky antics and flawed strategy. But most of all he was utterly terrified, because the aging fossil never made such messy mistakes, ever.

The crowd broke out into an encouraging chant.

Hikaru grunted, taking a hefty swig from his glass. The preliminaries were done completely out of the view of the public and only in the presence of the council and their most trusted men. These spectators had no clue of the bloody battles their 'heroes' had fought, the bones they'd crushed, or their lovely reputations of mass murder.

"Must you always fall into the category of grumpy councilman?" Kyoto's attempt to spark conversation was completely ignored, especially since Hikaru's eyes settled onto an upcoming figure just then. He stood up suddenly, eyes squinting and trying to make out the face shadowed by the sun's setting rays.

When his eyes finally focused the lucrative devil was already bypassing the doors.

The drum beat began to slow to an almost droll timing, most likely because the performers' jaws were the first to drop in terror, arms mechanically continuing their playing. The hairs on the back of Hikaru's neck rose as an electric shock tangled over him — the audience was slowly rising, row by row, fraction by fraction, faces in disbelief, trying to get a better look at that young man whose face was so oddly familiar, but it couldn't be him…no not _him_…

The petals stopped flying.

Sasuke continued walking, unbothered by the unvarying gazes. Not even after the silence transformed into loud whispering, into trembling horrified murmurs amongst uncertain citizens, even after several female screams escaped petrified throats; he did not acknowledge their presence.

"Well, this is a nice welcome. I feel like I've just won a beauty pageant." Karin grinned, waving flashily at the dumbstruck crowds, throwing an uncalled-for kiss every once in a while.

Suigetsu smirked and then disappeared from her side. Karin looked up towards a balcony above protruding from the rest, which stood almost right on top of the center, on whose railing Suigetsu appeared on suddenly. The throngs screamed, pushing against one another to put space between themselves and the vile intruder hanging from the barrier. He jumped onto the balcony itself, causing the remaining audience members to scramble to the other balconies while screaming piercingly — the calm of skepticism gone.

Iruka watched Sasuke, Jugo, and Karin's bodies fade before his eyes, but didn't need to investigate to know where they'd decided to play out the remainder of the ceremony. He wondered if his host position demanded that he introduce the dynamic 'strangers', but in truth, he could add nothing new to the loud murmurs swiveling around him.

"…the rumors, they were _true_…"

"…may Kami help us, every one of us…"

"…the monster with the face of an angel — he'll damn us all!"

_Nice to see such blooming confidence_, Iruka thought with a roll of his eyes; his agitated state of indifference was probably the result of his hellish past week. His gaze traveled to nine temporary chairs in front of the throne pedestal and he found himself almost feeling remorseful for all those bloodthirsty, coldhearted, wicked and (averagely) psychologically-unhinged criminals. He knew they'd curse the day they decided to listen to that little voice in the back of their heads promising gory fun and pleasurable regards.

Deep in reflection the Hokage walked in front of him, two small servant girls spreading rose petals onto the path before him.

It was time to separate, spread the cards, cross your fingers, and hope for the best game of your life.

He watched the Hokage's daughters shift to the left, where a two-foot base stood, on which the elegant kimono-clad councilmen wives kneeled, gossiping quietly and haughtily. The Hokage continued forward though, face passive and empty of any signs of resentment or contentment. Iruka found himself wondering, as he moved towards the small elevated platform to the right set for the evening's host: what exactly did the Hokage _feel_?

Hikaru grew a plastered smile as the Hokage walked up the steps and waved at the band so they'd quicken the beat. They obliged, just as the Hokage and he sat down in their thrones. He huddled closer to the Hokage, who'd just accepted a glass of imported wine from one of the passing servants. "So, what are the special plans for the evening?" Hikaru posed bitterly.

The Hokage sipped his wine and gave him a naive gaze, while stroking his white beard. "Pardon?"

Hikaru narrowed his eyes and budged his head in the direction of Iruka, who had just climbed onto the four foot stadium no wider than five feet. He had a rather difficult time considering that his hands were still wrapped in gauze, fingers still partially broken. The rest of his wounds were hidden behind his heavy clothing but just by his awkward stride it was obvious that physical injury lay beneath the fabric.

"Am I suppose to believe that Iruka gathered such injuries running through a field of daisies?"

The Hokage smiled, sipping once more. "He is rather clumsy."

"Stumbled into a wood chipper?" Hikaru provided dryly.

"Why Hikaru that's positively right. Your intellect still astounds me."

Hikaru slammed down the glass in his hand against the handrest, cracking it, and causing the red wine to spill down the mandible of the silver dragon. "The tournament is over, the winners have been chosen. Whatever you have planned I can easily crumble and dispute so don't underestimate my power in this council." He spat, looking deeply into the Hokage's eyes.

Neither broke eye contact as twelve guards walked towards the entrance doors. They separated into equal groups of two and began pushing the doors closed. They shut gradually, drowning out the soft rays of the sunset.

Iruka was flipping through the clipboard papers, noticing that he had background information on the present nine victors. Come to think of it, through his no-comment journey he'd never pondered the specifics of the plan. And the Hokage never truly had specified just how the upcoming contestants would become _Satan's Tea Army_. He cringed and looked down before crossing out the name; it really didn't work…sounded like a retired Rock Band…

Hikaru rose from his throne and walked forward in his lavish green robes almost to the fringe of the platform. The drums tuned out softly and hundreds of fidgety eyes switched from a certain raven-haired sin onto the councilman. "My People!" His voice was soaked with saturated sugar. "Our village has always sought peace, prosperity, and unchallenged wisdom. But recent fiends have disrupted our efforts and chattered our hearts. Thus, the time has come to defend our village from these horrendous terroristic attacks and today I, proudly and confidently, give you your _saviors_. Because in truth, there is no difference between us even if we belong to different ranks, ages, and sometimes even philosophical ideals," He gave Sasuke a nervous side-glance. "These things do not matter. We are here to fight for human life and to protect the innocent. Salvation has arrived!"

There was a collection of applause, though the enthusiasm seemed rather forced.

Iruka looked heavenward, finding it a little hard to image Temari hauling a small child out of a burning building. He found it a lot easier to imagine her lighting the match and spreading the gasoline.

A servant came towards Hikaru with a large tray in his hands.

"To show our gratitude and bravely represent us in battle, we will give each one of our warriors a special band with our village's symbol. Iruka, if you please…" Hikaru looked at Iruka, and he flinched back slightly. The look Hikaru gave him made him feel as though one wrong move, one secret gesture to cue a surprise balloon release, and he'd slaughter him.

Iruka looked down quickly, far too quickly. He located the first name and skimmed over the contents, it wasn't very impressive. An escaped death-row convict from Tokyo (yawn), killing count over sixty including a handful of ANBU (…heart stopping…), gibberish about a demolished school and burned corpses — how terrifying. Hmm, he'd turned really bitter lately.

By all counts it was a striking record. He refrained from asking if this guy had done an internship at his local hospital during the summer.

"Hideaki Isao!" Iruka called loudly, watching as the first contender walked up the steps to receive the band.

Iruka tried not to stare, but honestly, that 'man' had to be part giant, or genuinely mutated. He was at least eight feet tall, and either his clothing was stuffed with raw steel beneath or he took steroids all three meals a day with a routine workout of ripping massive forest trees out of the ground following in the afternoon. He resembled a sumo wrestler crossed over with a mobster, which deeply pleased Hikaru, who stole glances at the front door when he thought no one was looking.

Karin stepped onto the bottom lining of the railing to get a better look. Meanwhile, Jugo simply rested against the pillar beside her with his arms crossed and Suigetsu literally sat on top of the banister, feet dangling like an excited child at the funfair. Sasuke stood in the center of their group, forearms casually on the banister, his back perfectly erect, and lithium pupils examining the wooden front doors…

"This is _our_ army?" Karin asked aloud in disgust, looking around as though hoping a new batch of contenders would miraculously appear. "They might as well send us into combat with a pride of pigs."

"We could always use them for target practice." Jugo offered with a grunt.

"Well this is a disappointment, eh Sasuke-sama?" Karin swayed her face towards Sasuke, tone rather sensual. Sasuke simply ignored her, his interest captured by tracing the hand carvings of dragons on the wood with his eyes. Oddly, he seemed to be tediously waiting, as though expecting a late companion, and ignoring the unimportant pedestrians present in the panoramic scene.

Below, Mai spread her bright fan completely and placed it in front of her and her sister's face; they kneeled in the front of the platform, where they had access to an ideal view of the entire hall.

"He's gorgeous…" Mai confessed breathlessly into her sister's ear.

"He's _dangerous!_ Can't you see the red signs around him promising disaster?" June screeched in frenzy but she knew Mai wasn't listening to a single word; her eyes were glazed over with jittery enthusiasm while she bit her lower lip unconsciously and stole a glance up the balcony.

"It is said that you shouldn't judge a book by its cover, sometimes it's best if you do and not even turn to the first page." June warned darkly.

"But it's such a…captivating book."

"Filled with soul-stealing spells." June fanned herself rather aggressively then, almost spraining her wrist in the process.

Iruka looked down at the fourth name routinely, slightly spaced-out. "Kiyoshi Mad…"

_Bang. Bang. Bang._

Iruka stopped uttering the surname and glanced at the front doors with alarm. But before he could register the expanding situation Hikaru had cleared his throat, making him look in his direction. He was shot a rather apprehensive glare followed by the wave of a wrist, instructing him to continue immediately and ignore the violent knocks.

"Just the wind, Iruka." Hikaru said in an almost rehearsed voice, more for the overhead listeners than him.

Iruka didn't argue and just turned back to the clipboard, if it was the lost wind he predicted then no petty door could contain it. "Kiyoshi Madok…"

_BANG! BANG! BANG!_

Iruka began to gnaw the inside of his cheeks, refusing to look up. Was the wind throwing a temper tantrum now? Or was Hikaru going to blame flying rocks, or what the substantial strikes truly suggested, flying houses?

The whispers grew in volume with every passing second and spectators looked at one another in insecurity, nodding heads in disbelief or shrugging their shoulders. A late party wasn't being expected, invitations were never printed actually. Hikaru clenched his fists by his sides, mind racing for an excuse, while Iruka began to nervously tap his fingernails against the clipboard, mind spinning with possibilities of the latest arrival.

"Is anyone going to get that?" Asked the innocent voice of the Hokage, who stroked his wineglass and then turned back to his casual conversation with the catering service.

Karin raised her eyebrows and leaned even further forward as she watched the twelve guards from before begin walking towards the large doors again. But suddenly said doors burst open, crashing loudly against the walls beside them. Many audience members rose, others jumped in fright, when blinding sunlight rushed into the hall — the sun sparkling above the tip of the faraway volcano still.

Iruka knew the thought pulsating in everyone's minds. Whoever our lovely party crasher was, they'd apparently just kicked in a pair of twelve hundred pound doors…

Iruka's nails tapped even faster and louder against the clipboard.

While everyone's eyes adjusted to the blinding sunshine, though some remote few were blessed with slivering perception, an inhuman growling echoed throughout the Eastern Hall.

Mai reached for her sister's hands the second haziness faded and clarity revealed the slowly approaching snow wolves, all intent on a graceful stride forward. She shuddered at their crystallized eyes glinting murderously blue. Shaggy manes they had, tattered with recent droplets of blood that tainted their otherwise pure white furs. There were about six in total (Iruka groaned at this divine amount), considerably several feet in height, with haunting wide, able paws.

A sun-drenched figure behind them was following the wolves' path, slowly making their way into the heart of the hall.

Iruka's thoughts raced: Ah, should he break into a theme song?

The unknown figure stopped in front of the seated champions, hands dipped into bleached jean pockets. Many scoffed with arrogance while others stroked their chins and whirled menacing looking knives.

The crasher was fitted into a large, pitch black sweater that ended at the wrists. The zipper of the jacket seemed like dirty wolf teeth. But perhaps the most captivating (using the term lightly) feature about this ambiguous late guest was the fact that the sweater itself had a design of a skeletal outline. Almost as though it were an x-ray machine, it showed the ribcage, vertebrae, all the arm bones, even wrists and knuckles. Iruka's personal favorite was the design of the top portion of his skull. You see, the only portion of his face visible and not covered by said hoody was from the nose down. Revealing a deep frown and tan toned skin…

Iruka was tearing through the skin of his cheeks, frantically indecisive. The theme song might be too much. Maybe he should just spread his arms in presentation and chant "TA-DA!" Abruptly he noticed that the outsider's sneakers had left bloody shoe prints behind. Huh…they always did say that silence was the best medicine…

Hikaru cleared his throat nervously, waving a hand at the audience to instruct them to sit and be calm. Although his eyes seemed to be more concentrated on the shinobi in the shadows lurking closer to the front of the crowds secretly. "What is your business here?" He asked in what he believed to be a strong, demanding voice.

Iruka's mouth turned into a thin line. Well, this person certainly wants to open a dentistry office down the block — does his body language not scream so? Hikaru's playing dumb routine was honestly getting old.

A nearby wolf howled, while it and the rest of its pack circled the unwanted visitor.

"I came to compete." He replied tediously, annoyed somewhat that his brute actions hadn't painted the obvious picture.

Hikaru looked like he'd just received the answer he'd been dreading to hear. "Well that's unfortunate, as seeing that the competition is long over and as you can see," He motioned with his hands towards the seated victors hurriedly. "We have already chosen the winners."

Iruka thought that Hikaru looked very satisfied with his disposition. Did he honestly think that words had power when in the presence of a sociopathic nutcase? Iruka was delusional, drugged, and partly in the starting states of post-demon-encounter anxiety disorder and even he could recognize the evident.

"Well that is unfortunate." The outsider echoed, turning sideways and extending his hand towards the doors. They moved away from the walls swiftly and smashed closed, as though a sudden gust had just rammed against them.

He wasn't going anywhere.

Hikaru gave the Hokage a furious glance over his shoulder, but the Hokage was busily chatting with one of the waitresses about how he wanted his fried rice for the post-inauguration celebration. "I see you're going to be difficult about this," Hikaru addressed the crasher, though his words were meant for another as well. "However, if you do not remove yourself from our private premises then I'm afraid we'll have to use force young man; and let me certify that we're not afraid to do so."

The visitor looked towards the seated for the first time. Iruka got the mental picture of a prospective buyer scrutinizing the live crabs in the crystal water tank.

His head stopped in the direction of Kiyoshi Madoya, whom was still standing in front of the stairs. He'd risen at the call of his name, and was still waiting for Iruka to finish the surname so he could receive the damned band. The slender assassin glared back, patience finally cracking because of the unexpected annoyance.

Kiyoshi released a sneer and grabbed the sleeve of a trembling waitress standing nearby. She squealed at the uncomfortable nudge, but Kiyoshi was only interested in the bottle of sake on the tray she held. He grabbed it and then smashed the bottom against the platform behind him. He suddenly began approaching the still intruder menacingly, toying with the razor-sharp bottle in his hands.

Few in the hall were aware of the swift retreat of the wolves, who stepped back almost smirking (if animals could demonstrate such feelings), inspired by the certain entertainment to follow.

"Here's a thought. Why don't I maim your freakin' face kid? And then you get to go home crying looking like a fucking pealed onion." Kiyoshi addressed him coldly with a foreign accent, nearing aggressively, the bottle now in the right hand resting by his side.

Iruka opened his mouth but promptly closed it — wasn't this guy the mafia hired gun, the self-proclaimed Morbid Grim?

Kiyoshi was still about two feet away from his intended target when his stomach was smashed in, by a boulder-hard kneecap (signature move, Iruka noted). Kiyoshi fell down onto his knees breathlessly, spitting out a mouthful of blood and vomit onto the marble. And then his elbow was being bent in the opposite direction…

Mai's hand flew to her mouth as she watched the jagged, broken part of the bottle being shoved into Kiyoshi's face — cutting through it precisely until the same rough edges resurfaced on the back of his head.

Everything took place in less than five seconds.

Tears escaped down Mai's cheeks — Hikaru's face paled dramatically — the Hokage looked down and sighed — the crowds shivered almost in unison — Iruka was looking at the only exit repeatedly…

Karin smirked, caressing her earwrap. "Well, this is interesting."

Sasuke looked down at the black marble dispassionately, now being showered with a flooding pool of blood sprinkling from Kiyoshi's porous head.

The outsider let go of Kiyoshi's elbow, allowing his body to plummet to the floor ungracefully.

"It seems a position has just opened up." He announced to Hikaru, who neither agreed nor dared disagree.

Iruka inspected the seated champions, the rational thinkers squirmed in their seats, the rageaholics were gritting their teeth, and the most unstable smirked. If they could read minds he'd send them a pity S.O.S similar to something like: _Run to the nearest exit and don't look back!_

The wolves advanced again, this time crawling onto Kiyoshi's dead body. At first they merely sniffed with distaste but eventually they began to rip through the fabric of his clothes, and then his flesh. Their agility made it seem paper-thin. Mai hid her face in the nook of June's neck, unable to take anymore. June, however, couldn't take her eyes off the developing butchery; she was awestruck yet utterly disgusted.

Hikaru opened his mouth to voice his thoughts but words failed him entirely.

An icy chuckle resonated through the hall. "You are one sick pup, Shika."

Shikamaru bent down to stroke the fur on the head of one of the wolves just as it sank its teeth into Kiyoshi's collar. "Likewise seaside pornographer." He responded with disinterest.

The pitchy clinking of pointed heels drew everyone's concentrated attention to the top of the second story staircase to the right. For at that very second a slim and belligerent bounty hunter was descending. Ino dappled her index finger onto the railing, tracing down on it as she went. "Staring again whilst I wasn't looking?" She accused teasingly, pouting slightly.

Shikamaru rose, grabbing the top of the hoody and pulling it down.

His sharp, angular-cheeks gave him the aggressive appearance of a short-tempered fuse (quite the contrast with his lethargic tone and manner). At first glance he was someone who would not hesitate to snap your neck at the first stupid wisecrack, at second glance you'd realize that he'd perform a much more gruesome move that provided a more dramatic bloody delivery. His eyes were still a warm, dark chocolate brown, though just more slanted. As though they'd adapted after expressive frowning and exposure to sheer darkness and squinting necessity.

"I could smell your revolting perfume from a mile away — it irked me. You're lucky Mr. Delusional showed up." Shikamaru explained calmly, eyes tracing Ino's progress diligently, as though aware that it only took one second of distraction and a little silver bullet could be firmly planted into his temple.

Iruka narrowed his eyes in suspicion. Although his thoughts were rather muddled there wasn't anyone else on the pier with…hey, wait a minute… Was _he_ Mr. Delusional? Iruka shuddered, not wanting to know how he earned the nickname.

Ino closed her eyes while digging a hand into the top of her platinum blond, straight tresses (rustling the scattered pink highlights) and released a light moan of contemplation, though it was rather suggestive. "Always the considerate articulator," she opened her piercing blue eyes, which held almost the same perilous gleam as the wolves'. "So Shikamaru, you're looking good. Been catching up on your Scooby-Snacks?"

Shikamaru blinked in boredom, unfazed. "Ino, I see you crawled out of the coffin."

His tone confessed he was deeply displeased by this.

Ino was already half-way through the first story staircase. "Six hundred pounds of dirt can't kill me." She declared with a smirk, stroking the fur-trimmed edges of her coat over the area of her shoulders.

Shikamaru's eyelids half-lowered. "Let's hope the herpes does."

Iruka's eye twitched with a contained snort.

But somewhere in between the seated line of 'champions' a brave soul actually snorted aloud.

Ino's eyes narrowed crossly, smile disappearing. "You're still oh-so-charming." She began shrugging out of her long coat, and then threw it next to Kiyoshi's disassembled body. The aggravated wolves were growling quietly in her presence, showing bloody glistening teeth and momentarily forgetting the split extremities lounging beneath ready for nibbling.

Iruka noticed several remote things just then. One: the fur on Ino's coat looked strangely a lot like those wolves, which probably meant that she'd killed one of those thing's cousins. Two: How the hell did an STD get involved in this ordeal? And finally the magical three: Ino's mile-long (and impressive) legs had straps attached to her upper thighs with some gigantic, unrecognizable revolvers attached to them. Iruka could actually mentally picture one of those grotesque bullets ripping through the body of one of Gaara's pets. He grew rather gleeful just then.

Ino unclipped something small from the inside of her loose, steel belt. Her hand later opened to reveal a small black ball, brutally insignificant, that eventually grew in her hand to be around the size of a ripened apple. Ino threw the crystal ball up and down in her hands until she finally reached the marble flooring.

She smiled sweetly, too sugary in fact, and then turned her face in the direction of the seated (countdown-victims) victors, who grew rather stiff, awareness rushing through them. "Catch!" She shouted, imitating her best baseball serving move. The ball flew through the air. Many ducked to the floor to avoid the rapid fiend, others under their arms, but the intended target caught the ball into his brawny hand perfectly.

It was the same moron who'd laughed at Shikamaru's indecent remark.

Hideaki Isao laughed, twirling the ball in his hand and giving Ino a rather _'what now, princess?'_ look.

Sasuke was still ignoring Karin's excited jitters beside him. She was honestly like a child on the tip of a Ferris wheel; mindlessly entertained by the performers below blowing balloons and twirling like pretzels. Either way, his concentration was now slightly peeved by another. The dark circle of hell in the grinning buffoon's hand smiled up at him. Apparently, he wasn't the only one with a rather extensive secret agenda…

The orb in Hideaki's hand began to shake violently.

Ino examined her fingernails with interest, with genuine peak attention. Across from her was a panicking Hideaki who was fruitlessly trying to throw the burning hot globe to the ground, but it appeared to be glued to his skin, almost nailed to the surface.

If you blinked then you missed it.

It was the shortest whirling tornado Iruka had ever witnessed, and it even came in a convenient traveling pocket size. Twirls of pure black just sprang out of whatever-the-hell-that-was and seized Hideaki's arms and legs, devouring him entirely. It was almost as though he were just simple smog being sucked into a vacuum. He simply disappeared in a flash.

Ino's knee-length black boots clanked against the marble again as she walked past the row of champions. She passed a rather questionable looking fellow that Iruka had failed to notice, and he had no idea how, considering the odd circumstances provided. While passing by Ino had grasped the sledgehammer resting against his chair beside him and then proceeded to pounding the steel mallet repeatedly onto the orb and smashing it to pieces…

Immobile stares were planted on Ino as she consecutively hammered the already pulverized bits in blind wrath.

Iruka's unblinking eyes traveled around the room, unaware of what was a proper response.

Hikaru's opened mouth was now housing a fly and his foreign in-laws. The spectators were looking around in rather toned-down uneasiness, probably waiting for someone to just jump out and explain that this entire situation was just a cruel hoax. Meanwhile, the Hokage was whirling his wineglass with his eyes firmly on it, expression that of growing agitation.

Ino stopped her unnecessary assault, whipping her hair back and out of her face. She was gasping quietly with slowly settling amused rage, lips quivering into a smirk. She combed a hand through her hair. "See how less messy I am?" she told Shikamaru, leaning against the upside down sledgehammer and inspecting the bloody scene he'd made.

"Patience is a virtue, Ino." Shikamaru coached drily. "But then again, I could never be as distressed as you." With that he spread his arms, as though motioning to himself, and released rather sharp looking two-inch nails.

"Free rain wolf."

Ino frowned. "Count your blessings mutt."

"Count your lives, kitty."

Iruka cast a pleading look towards the Hokage.

Ino forced a laugh, still in her perfect model pose with her scandalously leather-tight ripped skirt, barely hiding anything. She smashed the heel of her boot into the wooden handle of the sledgehammer, cracking it in two. She let the bottom part fall and then twirled the other piece of wood in her hand. "Here's a thought. Let's get you more acquainted with your roots." She leaned forward a little and patted her hand on her thigh, with the other she wiggled the piece. "See the stick, boy?"

She turned around and threw it with all her might.

It crashed right through the windowpanes above the Hokage, drowning him in a bolt of sunshine.

"Go — fetch." Ino announced, nudging her head in the window's direction.

Next thing poor Iruka knew he was airborne, falling off the podium. He managed to grip onto the sides for dear life on the last feeble seconds. And by dear life he means it, considering that below him rested a pack of cannibal wolves. A mind-blowing blast of air, or more like the first winds of a rabid hurricane, vibrated around the entire hall causing the loss of his footing rather easily. He gritted his teeth, shuffling a foot back over the top of the platform.

"Just three more months." He encouraged quietly, completely unaware of what happening across from him.

One moment Shikamaru was there, the next, he just wasn't.

Shikamaru could now be found kneeling slightly in front of the suicidal blonde, his right hand clenched around Ino's throat in a restraining death grip. It crackled rather loudly, like smashed walnuts. Ino was glaring down at him, face bruising lilac, and holding a monstrous six-barrel revolver that was firmly planted onto his temple. Subtle, intimate, and deadly…

"Think you can pull the trigger before I separate your head from your body, bitch?" Shikamaru conspired darkly.

"Fuck yes! And even if I can't, I'll be sending your ass to doggy hell with me." She responded, voice croaking mid-sentence.

"_ENOUGH!"_

All attentive eyes shifted to the Hokage, who now stood next to an overly perspiring Hikaru, his tone burning with fury. "You've both demonstrated enough ability to be accepted into our army. Now desist this instant if you want me to officially welcome you. I will _not_ have my army fighting amongst itself like stray dogs instead of the enemy. If you shed the blood of your fellow comrade then you can just walk out of this hall now and save both your time and the trouble of disposing of you myself." He declared authoritatively, pipe miraculously still dangling from the corner of his mouth.

Suigetsu whistled, resting his chin on his palms. "Old guy's got balls."

Ino looked down at Shikamaru, but he only strengthened his chokehold.

"He's a little slow. Allow me to translate," Ino told the Hokage smiling and then turned her eyesight back to Shikamaru. She lowered her head until their lips were mere inches apart, her gun never shifting from position.

"Woof! Woof!" She yelled into his face.

Iruka jumped off the platform, not wanting to fall off of it again.

Surprisingly, however, Shikamaru merely flipped out of her grip and landed several feet away (Iruka scrambled back onto the platform — the wolves were captivated by his presence a little too much for his liking). Shikamaru raised his right hand, fingers now in front of his face, with strands of Ino's hair in them. He sniffed them for a second and then wrinkled his nose in disgust. "Your blood still smells like a dead cow's."

Ino massaged her neck with one hand, and with the other she twirled the gun in her index finger before strapping it back onto her thigh. "Carcass over flea-infested rodent any day."

"_Play nice boys and girls."_

Mai and June froze. The main reason being that the chiding yet vivacious voice was coming from right in back of them…

They turned their heads instinctively, jumping at the sight of the proximity between themselves and the maniac who'd just drawn attention to herself. Bizarrely they could have sworn that no one was sitting in back of them when they first sat down, they would have remembered seeing such a beautiful kimono no doubt. It was loose though, worn as though it were a mere bathrobe. The woman held a hand-woven fan, with the design of the bottom portion of a face with hooks inserted in each cheek, which was hiding her face while she fanned herself.

Temari closed the fan abruptly, tilting her head in a 'pica-boo' way, though her sensual grin erased all childish beliefs. She rose, allowing the kimono to fall down to her feet into a collective heap. More than a handful of eyebrows rose as well. Her outfit could almost be considered a one-piece bathing suit, with a wide cut in the middle that ended just above her bikini-line. It was two shades, white and light red, and neatly tied around the back of her neck into a bow. The only thing saving the flimsy thing from being dead-on referred to as skimpy sleeping attire was a sort of veil spreading from her hips. It flowed down to meet the floor gracefully in its see-through form.

Ino inspected her up and down several times. "Where'd you crawl out of sweetie, an Arabian-themed strip club?" she asked bluntly, though from her selection of words it was almost as though she was mocking Temari's usual remark choices.

Temari laughed aloud, quite genuinely. She tiptoed through the platform, before walking between gapping Mai and June, and with a small jump landing barefoot onto the cold marble. "Respect your elders." She scolded again, adjusting her white gloves that reached till her elbows.

Another mental image raped Iruka's brain — a surgeon preparing right before the grand operation.

On the temporary arena Shikamaru, Ino, and Temari made a triangle. Iruka knew of another triangle that fittingly described the situation. The Bermuda Triangle…

The Hokage sat back down with a deep sigh, and motioned the nearby servant that he was ready for another brimming glass of wine.

Temari toyed with the red rose over her left ear with her fingertips, innocently blinking at the guarded remaining champions. A predatory smirk spread onto her lips when she found suitable eye-candy, and before the contender could so much as complain she'd planted her nearly naked self onto his lap, stroking his ear in turn. "You don't think I look too indecent, do you?" she purred, raising her bare legs to give him access to an even skimpier view.

"Hell no," the man assured almost immediately, his hands finding their way to her exposed thighs.

The eyes under the long, spiked lashes sprinkled with happiness. "Really?" She pulled the man's collar toward her and brought his lips onto hers, hungrily kissing him. The passionate kiss lasted more than the healthy amount of seconds, and he even dug his hand into her loose, wild and curly locks to deepen the kiss further.

Iruka glanced down at his wristwatch.

Ino made a disgusted noise (like contained gagging) and Shikamaru simply crossed his arms.

Mai blushed profusely; rather annoyed with the view her seat provided her. Unfortunately the platform on which her sister and she stood was only about five feet from where Prince Charming and Walking Sex were engaging in twirling tongue exploitation.

Temari broke the kiss, breathing heavily. "Thank you." She said sweetly, putting a hand to her heart before rising from his lap and walking away several feet. She was smirking up at Ino, who looked back at her confused and irritated; apparently her mere existence aroused such emotions in her.

"Hey! Were you chewing gum?" her kissing partner asked suddenly, scratching his throat in bother.

Temari twirled, her foot bended sideways childishly like a kid caught doing the inappropriate. "Actually it was a Chocoboom."

"Okay." He deadpanned, indifferent about the brand name.

"It's a chocolate bomb. If you swallow it then it attaches to your thorax and…boom…" She piped, shrugging her shoulders.

He blinked a couple of times and then broke out into a heartily laugh.

Temari smiled, as his laugh grew louder and louder, to almost hysterics.

Iruka looked down, deciding that there were several things he wanted to not see before his death. A human head exploding was one. He knew when it happened not when the laughing stopped, but when the loud splatter of sprinkling blood echoed throughout the hallway. He tried to swallow down the nausea, but forced himself to look up anyway; telling himself that watching the remains of war wasn't the same as actually engaging in it. Many of the audience members were involuntarily vomiting; others just ran out in disgust.

Blood adorned a large portion of both the floor and portraits.

Mai and June stood quite still in utter horror and shock. A massive spurt of blood had bathed their entirety, smearing their kimonos, their arms and even faces. They were trembling, as though locked in a kitchen freezer.

"Hmm…" Temari played with a lock of hair, not an inch of her covered with blood. "Did he think I was joking?" She asked no one in particular, her tone now a dark sarcastic sneer.

Mai brought a wobbling hand to her cheek and wiped it smoothly against it, when she looked at her hand it was saturated in dark red.

She closed her eyes, and screamed — yelled — shouted — _screeched_ at the top of her lungs. She frantically tried to wipe the blood off her arms with her palms, but she would only manage to smear it further. June was breathing rigidly next to her, removing bits of brain off her kimono with her shaking fingertips.

The Hokage ascended from his throne the second his daughters began to scream in frenzy, falling into uncontrollable panic attacks. Numerous servants rushed to their aid with tray washcloths and began helping the princesses with mopping off the blood and removing the stray flesh. Others tried to soothe them with comforting shoulder petting and encouraging whispers but they still needed to be restrained down to facilitate their assistance.

Temari walked a few more paces to the left, so that the Hokage was now in her vicinity instead of being blocked off by Ino's slender form.

Iruka stiffened when he raised his gaze to the Hokage's face and found his eyes outright dead. They were almost black, void of sheen or speck of emotion. His resemblance to a corpse at that second was far too effective to make him comfortable. Of course, the young serial killer's intentions became crystal clear just then. Temari was a psychopath, yet she was everything but stupid. This was her own little test, antagonizing the Hokage's strongest weaknesses, squeeze till all the water drips out of the wet cloth, and watch for a reaction.

The Hokage did nothing except raise a palm up towards the audience, to stop the shinobi from engaging on an attack against Temari (that they'd probably lose in the long run). Temari enjoyed knowing till what limits she could push her games, how extensive was her power, and just how badly she was needed…and from the Hokage's actions, her involvement was key enough that desperation was the next emotion to seep through his pupils.

She grinned like a spoiled child.

Iruka guessed, from Temari's perspective, that the operation was a great success…

"…sick…" Jugo murmured with fascination. "I like her."

"I wonder who she is." Karin admitted to her colleagues.

Sasuke looked up at the picturesque ceiling and released his infamous quiet grunt of dissatisfaction; most commonly translated as _show-me-what-you've-got_.

Iruka turned to the recitalists on one of the second-story balconies and snapped his fingers piercingly. The drums began abruptly once more, as though already in the middle of an ongoing song. He felt entitled to act as a distraction, especially considering the peculiar situation. Stealing a reflexive look at the bottom portion left of the dead body feet away, he cleared his throat and mind (of possible consequences).

"Konoha villagers, I give you your three new finalists!" Iruka introduced loudly, motioning towards the triangle of hyped killers who were glaring in his direction. How the hell was he supposed to make them look _good_? He was the host, not a miracle worker, so he just stuck to his previous script.

He read word for word off the clipboard, terrified of stuttering. "Ino Yamanaka: bounty hunter, pirate, goddess of Hollows Creek's streets, and aspiring goddess of _all_ streets." He commenced. From the corner of his eye he noticed that Ino actually smirked at his mini megalomaniac joke. It was the sort of risk where you'd either end up a redefined billionaire or a lonely corpse under a bridge, maybe he should join a raffle if he survives today.

Hikaru finally stumbled back to his throne, watching the Hokage do the same after making certain that his daughters were carried away by some of his most trusted bodyguards.

"You failed to mention that Iruka was psychic." Hikaru whispered harshly. "Does he know my future grandchildren's names too?"

"Well that depends," The Hokage didn't look at him, eyes tracing Iruka's steady progress. "How much are you willing to pay?"

Shikamaru's wolves were in the midst of a buffet scavenger hunt, sniffing around and finding the tangiest pieces of human flesh before devouring them. One approached the quiet serial killer and began licking her blood-smeared toes, which had been victimized by the wave of spreading blood. Temari smiled and kneeled down to pet the wolf's ears with her hands, her face mere inches from his skin-tearing fangs.

It purred under her gentle stroking, like a mere one month pup.

Shikamaru watched the display in silence, studying the scene as the wolf licked Temari's cheek suddenly and then rubbed his face against her knee affectionately.

Iruka used great caution with the next name, mainly because he wasn't uncertain if the person being addressed would recognize it was them. "…Te—ma—ri…" He began slowly, watching for some sort of response that such was Temari's persona today, or at least that she was aware of her unreliable condition.

She wiggled her fingers in greeting and then turned her attention back to the wolf.

Iruka released a breath he was unaware he was containing. "Serial killer, geisha, drug-lord, and anything else you can possibly think of, and sometimes, professions that are just out of your imaginative plane of perception."

Temari snickered, combing her hand through the wolf's mane.

Iruka looked down at the clipboard, overjoyed with that fact that only one name was left to introduce. "Cerber…"

Ino's smirk widened and Shikamaru shot him a glare that could kill, and probably had before.

"_Shikamaru Nara_," He corrected quickly, stumbling over the word. "Ah…cage fighter…"

"Ooh, sounds kinky." Temari bit her bottom lip while rising.

Shikamaru's gaze settled onto Temari, who was smiling seductively. "It's a very dull profession." He affirmed impassively.

Temari's eyes smoldered with sexual tension, and she released a competitive moan. "Do you offer classes?"

Iruka looked at Ino just then and found her fingernails scratching the surface of her gun straps, fingers itching to pick up one of her paranormal guns and turn Temari almost translucent with holes. He dismissed the idea of Temari's bold flirtation being the reason, because it was obvious (at least to him) that Temari was imitating Ino's previous strategy and had just beaten her with her own cards. That moan she'd released sounded a lot like the one Ino released in her entrance fiasco…it seemed the tables had turned in mockery…

"You wouldn't be able to afford them." Shikamaru vowed, somewhat amused.

"I beg to differ." Temari countered, ignoring the wolf that was now nudging his head against her bare legs and circling her, pleading for her attention.

"I say go for it Shikamaru. She apparently already knows how to beg. All you need to do is teach her how to sit and rollover and she's prime material." Ino encouraged brutally.

Iruka was beyond words as he watched the quick-tempered blonde turn her teal orbs to the feisty bounty hunter, that stapled smile of promising friendship in play. "You look familiar. Are you my ex-girlfriend?" she inspected her appearance then. "Poorly bleached hair, flaky skin, lacking self-esteem and poor disposition. Oh my, you're not Ino are you?"

Ino narrowed her eyes. "Fuck you, Temari."

Temari's smile fluttered into a smirk. "You have such a pretty face Ino." She spread her fan in front of her face, only now instead of being flimsy paper it was made of razor-sharp steel. "I wonder how it'll look on me…" she warned darkly.

How was it possible that while some legends grew in fame and constant recognition, others were merely swept under the rug? Like eenny, meeney, and miney here (excluding the upcoming 'mo' of course — those were turned into ghost stories).

Shikamaru turned and began walking away from the electric-current between Temari and Ino's glares; he'd obviously grown bored of the back-and-forth charade. He eventually leaned against a portrait on the left wall near the council, and next to the staircase. His tall figure almost entirely covering the eerie painting of a garden made of hastening water bursting into ambiguous flames.

Soon after Temari closed her fan and turned her back on Ino, Ino promptly did the same. Iruka nervously waited for them to twirl around at any second and tear each other to bits, but they never did.

Temari jumped back onto the two-foot base, only now she had ample space, considering that the councilmen wives were huddled in the back as far away from her as possible. Ino settled on the top of the right staircase, knees together and planted in the center. Ready for her fraction of entertainment…

The following silence was awkward.

Iruka preoccupied the riling nothingness calculating how many strides it would take him to reach the front doors, and according to his reliable computations he had a higher chance of spiritually communicating with one of the ghosts of his ancient ancestors than ever getting a chance to touch that sturdy wood. He was not brisk enough, and fate's clear distaste for his person would simply plant one of the army's wanted souls in his path — resulting in an assured cardiac arrest.

Hikaru could now boldly stare at the entrance without fear of someone being suspicious about his peak interest. He drummed his fingertips against the silver handrest severely, almost as though he wished to draw blood from the battered skin. The contrast between his strained features and the Hokage's simply saddened expression drew one to believe that they were mere company at a funeral; and whilst the Hokage had come to accept his beloved's death, Hikaru was rigidly waiting for the murderer's reappearance.

"Well then," Hikaru rose with surprising stability. "I believe it is time to continue distributing the bands."

Iruka watched him spread his palm and motion his cue.

He instinctively glanced towards the remaining champions, only six seats remained occupied. He would forever be plagued by that number it seemed. His eyes landed on the most tranquil individual seated three chairs in, his appearance was not facial marked with cruelty and his clothing wasn't exceptionally peculiar. Yet Iruka's eyes distinguished him from the crowd because dangling around his neck was a medallion with the Leaf Village symbol.

He was one of the village shinobi.

Iruka's heart leaped with reassurance. The Hokage had mentioned that one of the positions would be taken by one of the Council's puppets; a superficial pawn so they'd believe their involvedness was crucial in the annihilation of the war. It truly was amazing that the Hokage would know such detail specifics, the chances of merely one making it into the army was miraculous if not staggering. Sometimes it was almost as though the Hokage knew the future in advance…and strategized beforehand…

The fold between Iruka's eyes wrinkled and he glimpsed at the Hokage. No, that was utterly impossible. Now he was truly being Mr. Delusional! That he'd think for a second that the Hokage actually knew the future was breathtakingly obscene. If such were true then they wouldn't be in this predicament to begin with, not to mention all the lives that would be _stupendously_ different. Namely a psychotic few.

Lest not forget the belated Romeo lounging in one of the balconies above, romancing the spite thorns of the delicate and dark bloom that was raw wickedness.

The rituality of ungraspable destiny was unknown to mankind and did not hold the simplicity of a circle of stones laid on a highland during a prickling fog.

Fate was unwritten.

Time uncountable and endless.

Human eyes blind to reality.

"Iruka!" Hikaru yelled loudly, breaking Iruka out of his trance. From his annoyed glaring Iruka knew he had been ignoring his addressing for some time now. "The next name please." Hikaru asked with sprained pleasantry.

Iruka shuddered uncomfortably, feeling the weight of countless glances. His own eyes traced the clipboard until he found the upcoming name. "Tatsuya Yamagata!" he called, looking up expectantly.

Hikaru grabbed the band off the tray and then patiently waited for the champion's ascend.

The lingering victors looked at one another, none shifting.

How odd, had he misspelled the name? Iruka was about to repeat said name when the situation dawned on everyone. Tatsuya was surely in the room, but he had no mouth to speak with, nor a brain to think with. In fact, the only thing left of Tatsuya was from the waist down…

Iruka truly failed as a distraction.

"Ah-um…" Iruka hurriedly turned the page, though from the corner of his eye he noticed some stray motion. Oh fantastic, Tatsuya's foot was twitching.

Temari giggled, gradually fanning herself. "He's a lively one, isn't he?" she jested, bangs swaying as she crossed her legs. She did it with the dexterity of a spider, and her polished appearance almost made her comparable to a spiritual entity. That is, if you worshiped the gothic version of Aphrodite — the siren of men and creator of chaos.

Iruka cleared his throat roughly, mainly just trying to find his fleeing voice. "Toshio…"

_Splat._

He froze, feeling the most insignificant weight on his right shoulder. Something cold was seeping through the fabric, sparkling brilliantly in its tiny form. Iruka had to barely turn his chin to catch sight of the sole snowflake silently resting, melting, dying…fallen…

The world suddenly grew dark, faded out as though the first part of this bloody play had come to an end and the actors needed to retreat backstage — Temari would return to her trailer and proceed to smashing all the nearby mirrors, Ino would go target practice on the upstairs light bridge while perfectly hitting her intended targets (all the unnecessary stagehands), and Shikamaru…he'd probably just sneak out back for a cigarette…

Meanwhile five year old Iruka would lie down on the cold dark marble of the Eastern Hall, arms spread out like a fallen angel, while admiring the breathtaking ceiling. Becoming lost in the legends told in contorted designs of helpless damsels, greedy dragons, selfless ninjas, burned down and reborn villages, the truth behind the sky, the moon, the earth, Kami himself…

Such beautiful craftsmanship and meticulous details by unshaken brushstrokes, at times he felt as though he could breathe them in…felt his body overflowing with an unexplainable emotion and then sensed tears running down his cheeks before they piled into insignificant puddles beside them.

Here was a ceiling that served as the largest storybook page in history, a grand historian ready to share the most intimate secrets of literature. It was the shielding fairytale protecting him from the accusatory heat of summer, the heartbreaks of spring, the merciless airstreams of fall, and even the lonely snowflakes of winter.

Iruka felt more frozen with every confused stare planted onto his form, and considering that there were hundreds of eyes scrutinizing his pale appearance at this very second — he was probably impersonating a believable ice sculpture.

But none of that mattered anymore! Just the one poignant truth that only he understood. His ceiling had finally failed him or so the soggy fabric vindicated. A snowflake had escaped through, a page had been ripped, and a blazing lie had been told and burned a hole into his enchanted fairytale like the jagged teeth of a starving mouse into the plaster of a crumbling wall!

He breathed out of his mouth unsteadily, and found that he could see his own foggy breath as it swept past his lips in a translucent miasma.

With every passing second the hall descended a degree colder…

_Tell me Iruka, what are your thoughts on Hell? _Iruka ceased breathing altogether as a warm breath tickled his ear, the voice of his nightmares. _Do you believe it is covered by smoldering fire, a blistering ambiance damned with the reincarnating afterlives?_

His instincts inclined him to look upwards and he did so slowly, fear evident in his colorless features. This simple action caused a domino effect of head jerks as all heads except a select few followed his lead.

_Or do you believe Hell to be a cruel blizzard, a frozen lake of blood endlessly drowning the sinful born?_ Hinata's impassive voice echoed in his mind. _Can you see the snakes drowning, see them squirm…_

Ino stroked one of the guns still attached to her thigh strap, calmly staring down at the irrelevant space in front of the seated champions with a satisfied smirk. Temari's fanning had slowed down considerably; it was now a mere mechanic gesture as her eyelids lowered into pleasured slits. Shikamaru arched his neck back relaxing, his wolves lay in a collective heap around him, resting on their sides.

Just then as the final gaze grew heavenward, the images above began glistening as snowflakes evaporated into existence out of thin air. No one dared to speak as tiny fragments, sparkling diamonds, seeped through the solid ceiling and rained down in their puffy forms like eternal stars under the heavy clouds of a black night sky.

"By Kami…" Hikaru murmured, mesmerized.

Hands shot out through the balconies and empty palms grasped freezing flakes of winter. The spectators excitedly gossiped amongst each other while they played with the melting star-shaped gems in their hands, flicking the snow at one another teasingly. Others just stared up fascinated, wondering if the display was a planned mid-celebration entertainment.

Iruka watched as the snow began piling up around him, falling soundlessly on the marble flooring, on the painting frames, the balcony banisters, even the chandeliers overhead. The sight before him was beautiful yet he found himself reaching a dark conclusion just then, Hell was most definitely covered with mounds of snow.

He spread his hand in front of him, ignoring the tingling sparkles now on his hair and shoulders. Several pure white flecks landed on his palm, though they were surrounded by a strange blue grit. Iruka narrowed his eyes and brought the hand closer to examine the strange substance. It was powdery, and blended perfectly with the snow, even added to its luminous delivery — yet Iruka felt a slight burning sensation through his flesh. He feared that Hell was about to submerge them all at any second now.

Karin leaned forward and captured a flake on her tongue and tasted it, finding it surprisingly salty. "Mmm…t'is the season for Cirque Diabolique, don't you think Sasuke-sama?" she inquired, immediately snatching at the opportunity to engage in conversation with le garçon qui est maléfique.

She found said doctrine of sin gazing forward acidly, unimpressed by the resplendent spectacle scintillating around him, exemplified graphically with repugnant beauty. The harmonious exhibit's origin had even intrigued Jugo and Suigetsu's wavering attention-spans and they now scanned the premises for an applicable source. Yet Sasuke remained idle and inattentive. She noticed just then that he wasn't blinking, his crimson pupils dilated threateningly like an aggravated lion pacing his pride land — dark flames slowly rotating around his irises and mental absorption specifically on one destined carcass.

Her eyebrows rose in wonder and she immediately followed his glare, finding her own landing upon many distressed and insignificant spectators on the opposing balcony. They were, predictably, enraptured in the same silly and exceptionally degenerate enthusiasm as everyone else. However, these villagers rationally concentrated on any direction except the space ahead while interacting. All obviously terrified of looking up and accidently being abducted by the dark prince's intimidating ores.

All heads adequately bowed in respect.

Except one.

Exotic met experimental.

Red clashed with green.

And just like that…Hell kicked into full-gear…

Iruka felt the earth beneath him shift, quaking faintly as though the Eastern Hall was built above an underground train station and at this very moment two trains were crashing against one another — erupting into mindless flames — melting down steal — rupturing the core of the hall's structure and weakening every pillar and marble tile.

Suddenly a thin coating of ice sprang out of the corners of the walls and progressed to the heart of the hall. Iruka felt his body jump as the marble beneath him was replaced with ice, slim and frail yet mockingly powerful. Screams tempered as the furious smash of clashing glaciers roared throughout the chamber and chunky ice climbed up the pillars like agitated roots, freezing them stiff, cracking the formation below.

Iruka was petrified, and nearly stumbled forward in the midst of his uneasiness (he'd never been the most coordinated over chilled frost…). Around him the Eastern Hall was being transformed into an ice palace of gothic architecture, and by the time the last flake fell not an inch of surface was not caked with rime.

The spectators wrapped their arms around themselves, enthralled by their ghostly breaths as they inhaled and exhaled rigidly, lightheaded over the absurd unpredictability of the situation. Iruka's eyes flew to certain individuals in the room, wanting to weight their reactions so he'd know if the wailing sirens in the back of his head were really on mark. As expected, Ino was still smirking, Temari was grinning, and Shikamaru looked bored as hell. As expected, his intuition's whiff of coldblooded murder was precise.

Let the bloodbath begin.

The Hokage bended down and gathered a bundle of snow in his hand. Afterwards he leaned back against his throne and fiddled with the pathetic flecks using his long nails. Iruka watched as his brows furrowed and a disturbed frown painted over his indifferent pretense. He fisted his hand forcefully and then released the silvery dust.

All eyes switched to the silent Hokage.

He pressed his mouth into a thin line and then declared hoarsely, "It's mercury…"

The taste in Iruka's mouth swiftly transformed into fruitcake and cider. There really was no justifiable explanation why. But at least around him others did respond quickly to reasonableness, or perhaps it was just the adrenaline impulse of unwanted death. When the screaming commenced again it didn't seem extraordinary, this hall had listened to such desperate howls since early in the evening. He watched the reluctant show participants as they fruitlessly tried to shake off the hazardous grit, trying to avoid more physical contact.

Iruka doubted the damage was revocable. Mercury's versatile skill came in the form of sore rashes, the swelling of tampered flesh, even the loss of hair, teeth, and nails. It could discolor your skin and victimize your pigments, drive your dead skin to peel off…layer by layer…

And in large quantities, Mercury came with the promise of poisoning and settled death.

Iruka glanced upwards, chest heaving. This was not the fairytale ending he desired. Who had corrupted the scriptures? Redrawn the climax? Killed the protagonists and replaced them with homicidal maniacs?

It was at that moment that he perceived the archangelic chandelier swaying faintly, like a hanged baby lamb from a celestial, pearl noose. All the diamond-shaped crystals grating against one another and harshly chanting symphonic music. The fifty feet monstrosity seemed possessed by a demon, a libertine ghost intent on unyielding merry.

But as the previous frenzy began to soothe and fitful ganders shifted towards the treacherous ceiling once more, Iruka was finally able to distinguish which demon would provide the primal greeting into their snow Hell. For an allotment of seconds he believed his eyes were glazed with trickery since she camouflaged so perfectly with the defined glass. But eventually her outline grew clear, and the ethereal nymph using the chandelier as her playful swing grinned down at him as she rocked back and forth endlessly…

_Fuck, fuck, fuck!_ Of all the demons to choose from to become their cheery escort. Why her?

Tenten was beyond pleased — she was full blown ecstatic, like a tropical orchid in its first spring season. Iruka made a note to self: the extraterritorial outlaw was an extremist of extravaganza. He could envision the fair-trade with her at the gates of oblivion, your soul for absolutely nothing. Good luck disputing those trade agreements.

She spoke with the same soft, girlish voice he'd imagined. A blissful tone of quiet fascism that contrasted vividly with her blatantly malicious pupils, so conspicuously wicked yet genuinely festive.

"Eenny, meeney, miney, mo. Catch a tiger by his toe…" she cautioned, breathlessly.

Iruka swallowed down his nausea and dissected her appearance. The first features that caught his interest were strangely familiar. Tenten's boots appeared to be made of pure ice, or perhaps reflective crystal; they rose past her mid-thighs and held three chunky heels — overall they seemed like sculptured glaciers, the identical twins of the hostile natural glass that had taken over the hall's pillars.

Her arms were covered with a similar creation, her glassy gloves ended right over her shoulders in three menacing triangular edges, leaving only her knuckles and fingers free of its grasp. Her body was hugged with a thin-layered dress of delicate marine blue that assented every curve; it stuck to her like pasted leather and ended at her thigh in a flirty wave of curls. Above, the corset-like design gave her collarbone excessive exposure. In consummation, the recognizable buns lay on either side of her head, only now they seemed thicker; it was obvious her hair had grown to at least lower-back.

Iruka's forehead creased when he concluded that he would not fall for her war-craft game, like the long perished. Tenten's aptitude and finite profession did not require the authority over earthy weather or yielding of such tasteful magic. She was the wielder of illusions, a natural born mastermind of manifestations and schizophrenic supremacy.

"If he screams pull his tail. Send him off to Cardiff jail." She piped, sniffing hurtfully.

Iruka watched her finger dance in midair — while pointing towards the powerless 'champions'.

"Eenny, meeney, miney mo. Catch a tinker by his toe…"

Iruka felt uneasiness overtake his stomach. Nursery rhymes would now forever be tainted with rabbit hole meanings. Hadn't he been using that rhyme earlier? Oh how grand, he was starting to think like a psychopath! Dear Kami…He truly was beyond medication.

"If he wriggles let him go. Eeny, meeney, miney…" Her finger landed onto a target. "Mo."

The pointed-to assassin gritted his teeth and rose from his chair furiously, accepting her palpable challenge. He removed his jacket and threw it to the floor, revealing two swords, one attached to either side of his body. Tenten jumped down from the chandelier (all three stories…), landing perfectly on the ice with her three-inch heels, not prickling a scratch.

She straightened gleefully, tapping a finger to her mouth childishly. "Hmm…this doesn't seem like it's going to be much fun." She announced and nudged her head towards an individual still sitting. "How about two against one?"

"Hah!" The addressed man ascended as well at her absurd proposal; his creeping grin bursting into a smirk. Then with one swift movement he unfastened the revolver around his waist from its holster and directed it towards her forehead.

"What are you girl, suicidal?" He scorned, regarding her up and down.

The primary assassin chuckled and then licked his sword blade. "Virgin blood always tastes the best…"

Tenten smiled and then swayed, as though prepared to take the first step forward. Then there was a shift in the ambiance, unnoticeable except to those of trained, malignant perception. The two challengers obliviously concentrated on Tenten's naïve expression. But in mid-step she turned on her heels, her body in partial profile, revealing a rather unpleased young man now standing in back of her.

The expressman of vengeance.

"Such chastity, I would have never expected that particular devotion." Neji swathed that egotistical-princely quality upon his voice. "For only your blood will be spilled onto this snow."

His eyes glimmered with the platinum sheen of a flammable temper, lacking a suitable warning. His mid-back hair flowed down his back in meticulous order with the tip coupled around a band. The maniacal practitioner of floriculture who'd dared to pluck the demonic orchid was attired in a black, old-fashioned tailcoat with eerie designs on the collars and sleeves, with an array of buttons closing it fittingly above a white silk puff tie. His hands were tunneled in the pockets of his white-striped black pants. Sideways poster exclaiming apathy and piercing pupils thirsting for blood.

Tenten grinned and then bended her arm backwards, reaching the hilt of the narrow sword whose sheath was attached to the back of her mini latex outfit. Neji reached for his in the identical position.

"So Neji, how do you want to cut them? Horizontally or vertically?" she breathed eagerly.

He frowned. "Both."

Iruka almost didn't look down in sufficient time. He pretended to have gained a simultaneous interest for the marble tiling; the flooring was most unlike the ceiling — contradictory to the unreliability of shelter from above, there was always ground to walk upon. Before long four precise slashes echoed throughout the concave hallway and the thud of severed extremities soon followed, along with concurrent retching and the mental image of a garden filled with incompatible apples and oranges quarreling for a sole orchid.

A wolf licked its paw thoughtfully.

Temari bended backwards until her forehead was planted onto the wood once again. She examined the upside down petrified faces of the councilmen's wives and smiled predatorily, eyeing one by one. "So what are you ladies having for dinner tonight?" she inquired innocently, catering Shikamaru with a quick side-glance.

Temari had a pretty good idea of what she would be having for dessert…

One of the women brought a hand to her mouth in hurry and then sprinted off the platform to release her supper.

In the meantime of this exchange Neji had relocated and now leaned against the main right 'wall' next to the staircase, directly opposite of Shikamaru. Neither paid any attention to the other; the forbidding tension kindling between the two exceptional exterminators was that of cordial and mutual adversaries.

All the while Tenten, the spontaneous freelancer, was once again swinging on the chandelier…

And Iruka, the nervous wreck, was tapping his foot impatiently while holding his breath and counting to ten. How long before he found himself in one of the little white-rooms inside Hollinsblue Psychiatric Hospital? Unfortunately it would soon become unacceptable to refuse the lovely sight before him. The freakish sensations coveting his arms reminded him that ignoring the inevitable always fucking sucked.

In spite of his pessimism when the last fragmentary thought vanished an unexpected crackle erupted in front of him, and there was an intense outburst of glowing flames and absorbent heat. The Hokage drew the lustrous fingers of his hand inwards slowly, the alchemy fainting, and rested the arm back on his lap.

Iruka raised his chin serenely, appreciating the Hokage's resolution to clear the chamber of such an unwelcomed sight. The haunting holocaust consumed the scattered extremities like a starving peasant. Tastefully the ardent sparks were substantially dense so it was impossible to make out the conversion from skin to ash. Only the presentation of puppeteer, vague shadows on the marble gave life to the scene surrounding the entwined and flowing gold blazes.

Iruka froze. Perhaps Hell really was wrapped in fire…

And our shadows were our dark counterparts, tranquilly waiting for the day when we'd lay underground and became _one_ complete demon at last.

When the tamed combustion bleached into nothingness only a profound pool of ash remained in its wake. Iruka was prepared for the maddening silence that'd pursue, mind jumbling with sardonic sarcastic comments to fill the void. He was dead wrong, of course, since probability and statistics meant shit nowadays.

"What the fuck! Did you bring us here to compete or get slaughtered!" Toshio accused with audacious ferocity, the veins of his arms escalating like tangled weeds. He was part of the little knitch composed of four lucky survivors, for the time being.

He approached the throne pedestal boldly. "What is this? Some kind of sacrificial ritual you sick fucks!"

"Oh my," Temari brought a hand to her heart, "this boy has quite the mouth."

_You should hear my thoughts,_ Iruka added bitterly in his mind. The audience members were still scratching their hands, arms, necks, and faces — oblivious if the cause was breaking anxiety or mercury. Iruka had just tuned out Toshio's exasperating cussing tirade when the oddest occurrence caught his interest. And to consider something odd at this point in time was miraculous, and terrorizing.

An unmotivated, origin-less breeze gingerly swayed beneath knee-level. Like a multitude of gasps by vengeful phantoms, it brushed the ashes away from the center of the hall and swept them towards Toshio's booted feet. Iruka watched in fascination as the ashes flew undetected in casual disorder, landing peacefully like silent locusts.

"_The Hell with all of you!"_ Toshio shouted violently.

And then he was choking.

Iruka's jaw dropped in revulsion as the ashes burst upwards suddenly and pummeled down Toshio's throat, like frightened warrior bees rushing into the security of the beehive. Toshio gripped his neck with both palms while the smothering ashes gluttonously devoured his breath. He struggled to close his mouth since his brain was panic stricken and barren with decisions. Though even if he could automatically shut his mouth the ashes would simply find a different hole to reach their destination. Perhaps his ears, or nostrils, or eye sockets…

In a mere matter of seconds all of the ashes had been consumed and Toshio fell to his knees coughing uncontrollably, tears staining his flushed cheeks and quivering arms stressing to sustain his body. A trickle of saliva dripping down from his opened mouth as he panted.

Tenten took an excited, dramatic intake of breath. "Hi Gaara!"

If this were a bedroom, Iruka would be under the bed right now.

Tenten waved cheerfully in his direction.

Gaara did not acknowledge her presence in the least and remained idle, like a frozen glowworm, even after the terrified spectators in the second story balcony turned around in accord only to find that the spoken to was in the heart of their crowd. He was a luminous larva, the gondolier of the dark canals through the inferno's levels in a black-and-white gouache painting (excluding the white…).

Once more he was the tallest amongst them, the undetected cancer poisoning their systems and claiming governorship over their souls. The sole bearer of pure black attire, preciously the same as in a murky anecdote regarding a foreign train station, and owner of pure emerald irises plucked from the face of another. The experimental beauty of his alien features and angles momentarily distracted the throngs from detecting the erotic perversion of his aura, or who the conflicting challenger on the other end of his glare was.

Neither Sasuke nor Gaara had broken eye-contact in the past five minutes.

Subsequently, the previous palpable abhorrence (the grindstone of innate rivalry…unspoken, sacred revolutions haggard by half-hearted soldiers…the habitation-greed of guinea-pigs struggling to satisfy their new father) evaporated swiftly now under the myriad of gazes. The act of evanescence did not go unseen by the certain few with unthinkable preparation to detect it; yet they were unaware of the bloody groundwork regarding a treacherous history with a crooked yellow path into a forbidden city filled with dying cherry blossoms to recognize the intent behind the challenge…

Karin watched her master's objective faint to disinterest, though the stare continued, both contender's eyes now less wildly with animalistic brutality and renouncing the psychological battle. Their chakra levels had never emerged and exposed their abilities, as far as any skilled ninja knew these two had the same chakra essence as two logs floating on a stream.

Gradually Gaara's mouth twitched into a crooked-smirk, while he took pleasure in the brief knowledge the pitiless protégé before him lacked.

Hence, ghoul gas chamber screaming resonated generously against the walls.

It seemed that Toshio had finally gathered his breath. Prior, he had just barely accomplished setting his heartbeat onto a steady pace when the cruel fact that the numbing of his flesh wasn't subsiding crashed into his uneven reality. When he'd brought a hand towards his face to examine the skin he finally became aware of what the disturbed, silent bystanders had been forced to witness for the last minute or so. His flesh was now a bluish black, like the crust of overheated yeast with hollow crests and miniscule craters — his body was decaying while he was still alive.

The spectators surrounding the sinister spell caster found their legs unable to move, their eyes naively drawn to Gaara's commanding presence. They gawked like a horde of inexperienced Gladiators entranced by the gentility of the lion's mane in the core of their formation.

A bizarre sensation in Toshio's right ear compelled him to touch it with a trembling hand, and then he felt something bulky fall into it. When Toshio brought the hand to eyelevel once more he found his own crumbling ear inside it…

That was the shouting that pierced the hall this time, a painful cry aroused by no pain at all, just poignant truth.

Iruka watched the petrified Toshio spring to his feet and sprint towards the shut front doors, the ideal gesticulation of madness. He felt a pang of sadness, knowing that even if Toshio reached said doors the chances of him being able to open them were scarce at best. Did he desire one last look at the night sky before perishing? Iruka glanced up at Gaara and immediately felt as though he were in the presence of a pompous Greek God who thought of his actions as merciful…as though numbing the suffering would make the killing less inhumane…

Shikamaru twirled his index finger.

The six hundred pound gates opened slowly prior to Toshio's arrival and slowly rested against the opposing walls, patiently waiting (Iruka grew greatly bewildered by his kindness). By the time Toshio reached them he resembled a rotting corpse on its sixth day beneath the ground. Eventually his feet reached the white stone of the pavement outside, the full moon from above illuminating his silhouette as he fell to his knees for a second time limply.

The throngs rose to their feet unconsciously, instinctively desiring to know what the outcome of this situation could possibly be. The dead was placed beneath the ground before utter decomposition, but like malevolent children with hazardous magnifying glasses — they all hungrily waited for the insect's crumble. Iruka felt compelled to help, but there was absolutely nothing in his power that could be done. Regrettably such a feeling of helplessness only served to feed Gaara's insatiable ego.

So far, _Ego Trip_ was at the top of his Possible-Army-Names list…

Eventually Iruka's sloth mentality boosted to uncertainty, when his pupils adjusted to the darkness of the botanical gardens and he was able to distinguish a second silhouette on the pavement, standing mere feet from the immobile Toshio. The young man's face was indiscernible from such a distance, and in addition it was obscured by the night's cloudy splendor. Only his short locks flayed in the wind while he examined the unusual sight in attendance: a breathing zombie peering up at the moon.

Iruka absentmindedly wondered what this aimless stranger could possibly be thinking when presented with such an abnormal circumstance. Yet another inexplicable event in itself was — what was that person doing out there in sheer darkness?

The idea had barely registered when the screaming abruptly continued…

It took several halftone seconds for the hall's recipients to acknowledge that the panicking voice was not Toshio's but rather one of the other nameless champions inside the hall. He was squirming on the floor like a twitching cockroach soaked with pesticide. He was bloody, and seemed to be tearing his shirt apart with his sharp fingernails while at the same time scratching his flesh like a maniacal heroin addict.

"No! No! Get them off!" he screamed frantically, the bottom of his fingernails clogging with dead skin. "Can't you see them? Help me!" he demanded frightfully while scraping his back at an awkward angle, barely reaching the artistic white tiger tattoo on his back.

Iruka's grip on the clipboard fumbled and it fell down with a loud thud onto the marble below. How couldn't he have seen it before? Shikamaru hadn't opened the doors for Toshio…

Toshio's body fell forward and hit the pavement, discombobulating into a mound of black ashes and disintegrating into the rushing wind like scattered petals.

"You'll have to excuse my brother," Temari addressed a councilman's wife loudly, but then lowered her voice to a mere whisper. "He's a little _weird_."

Iruka now truly felt submerged below freezing water, aimlessly swimming in the grand ocean of genocide. He'd been baptized into damnation when impacted by a sub-zero wave of water in a hospital for the sane — only this time it had the multitude of a raging _tsunami_…

…Hinata…

The voice of his nightmares stood in the shadows like a lonely dessert rose.

Her demented victim gnashed his skin against the portraits, rasping it consecutively as though it was Cheshire and the 'wall' was a saw-toothed grater. When he found that the multi-colored slugs would not cease crawling he began mashing violently against the wall, trying to pummel them to juicy bits of slim. No one else could see the slugs; they only existed in the bloodshot eyes of its prey. Iruka visibly shuddered, knowing the feelings of disgust and vulnerability those beings generated. Like starving leeches they sucked out every gist of sanity and left nothing but pure fear.

The Hokage brought a hand to his dry lips in contemplation and set his wineglass aside, finding the liquid's consistency too similar with blood. He proceeded to stroking his beard and granted the talisman shinobi a superior glance; the later nodded in accord to his unspoken order and shifted uncomfortably in his chair.

The blaring lunatic walked six feet away from the wall and then rammed head-first against it.

The audience members whispered loudly amongst each other, attempting to decipher the aggressive hallucination.

Karin raised her hand hesitantly and curled her fingers around Sasuke's stiff shoulder gently. "Sasuke-kun?" she haughtily questioned, her tone confessing her true intentions: _Do you wish for me to dispose of the redheaded intrusion?_ Her secretive words conspired, brutally underestimating the desert prince.

Sasuke and Gaara simultaneously ceased glaring at one another, their focus shifting towards the oak front doors.

Iruka felt himself take an involuntary step backwards.

The panting fanatic wobblingly walked back eight feet from the wall this time and then sprinted towards it.

A pale, slender beauty walked into the Eastern Hall — the lights showering her form.

"_Have you ever met the perfect sociopath?" Dr. Norah asked, her tone darkly sarcastic. Her words echoed back at them both, the emptiness answering her call in the cold, dark hallways of Hollinsblue Psychiatric Hospital._

"…yes…" Iruka murmured dreadfully, tracing Hinata's progress into the Hall with stinging pupils.

To him, she was the most earnest eclipse. The queer possessor of frighteningly light skin eccentrically woven from sterilizing medication and contagious but misshaping magic. With thumping cold heartbeats of unstable worship and a tranquil presence with a simple but definite delivery that mangled his throat into a thorny tourniquet. She appeared to be taking deliberately slow steps, like a disoriented angel on her first journey down to earth after a hasty dismissal. The victim of a trivial controversy involving bloody, sinful pleasures with erotic flashbacks and a delicate scene d'amour. An intoxicating love affair much better left to the hushed gossip of demons. Her enigmatic, grayish-azure pupils were still the same peculiar diamond shape. Their graceful intensity dismembered his very soul with jagged eddies, although they merely trailed the multitude of faces in the balcony throngs above the Hall. Her eyes whisking with no true concentration, perhaps searching for a familiar face, a certain face…

To them, her skin held a luminous, clean glow and a soft and spotless sophistication void of a single scratch or tear; utterly flawless with a bleached tint screaming sickness. However, Iruka's unstable imagination and unwanted knowledge of classified files contorted the blissful angel's appearance into what it should be. How it had been in a certain picture shown to him by the drunken blonde mute in a bar so many days ago. Mutilated by thick and pointed needles with rotting thread from crested lacerations, her clearly visible lilac veins entwined with hot cement (bubbling comically), while the outer flesh remained shielded with the infectious disease of distorting witchcraft that spread up her arms like a fungus and constantly pumped a much more potent drug into her bloodstream than any hallucinogenic elixir, without the constraining need of wires or iron clasps.

It was pure and rare Malice.

_Fifty yen per bag…_

She was simply so diplomatic as she shifted her gaze forward, as though she were in some sort of trifling paranormal coma. Yet in the midst of her sleepwalking dreaminess she appeared perfectly aware of her perilous surroundings. Her manner of indifference provided the allusion of a voluntary addict, owner of a drugged existence of hazy discomfort, with a hidden incentive.

Her sluggish strides were undemanding and precise, arms lifelessly beside her hips as she headed towards the staircase on knee-length boots with a pointed heel and front. The black leathery-material glistened under the array of chandeliers effortlessly.

Tenten glanced down at the approaching effervescent sin, the slightest cryptic frown wiping her foregoing grin. Her face feigned mere discomfort, while her eyes regarded Hinata as a mere dust-cloth. A raggedy and worn fabric worthy of mingling with trash at the bottom of a dumpster, where it surely belonged.

However, Iruka's attention was solely on the transgressing beauty nearing the center, thus he failed to catch Tenten's telling expression. Hinata's appearance had shifted quite dramatically since their last wonderful (—ly scarring) encounter, creating a hot dilemma in his subconscious. For instance, Hinata's initial long locks were utterly gone, replaced by a pixie haircut with tangy choppiness, giving her a rather edgy air of defiance, of quiet strife. Her features were suddenly exposed for the world to finally see: her big and naturally vacant eyes, a delicate bone structure, a slender jaw line with pearly thin lips. Certainly if Iruka had seen her from a much closer distance prior he would have never confused her for a male because of her hairstyle. In fact, if he could breezily dispatch all of his nightmares and exclusive memories of snakes, worms, and random detonations about her, Hinata could easily be considered rather appealing in his eyes. A genteel maiden worthy of a second glance, if not several more.

She was no longer attired in the psychiatric ward's clothing, though she seemed to have kept one article specifically. The white, long-sleeved shirt swept about three inches past her wrists, leaving only her fingers exposure. Two buttons lay undone from the erect collar, where an intricate lace chocker of black yarn and coal gems wrapped around her neck. Her shorts were the utter opposite of her camisole, it was petit and several inches above her mid-thigh, also of black, yet dull, material.

The suspenders swayed as they fell against her hips…

The audience members could not be more perplexed. They scrutinized her average appearance with terrified but ignorant prejudice. This approaching girl seemed so…harmless. Was she simply lost? The bearer of horrid luck who'd accidently walked into a perverse situation without prior knowledge? Had Little Red Riding Hood walked inside instead of obediently waiting by the doorstep?

But she seemed so intent forward. What a stupid child! Could she not see the frenzied loon crashing against the wall like a mad man? That could easily be her!

…or could it be that she was one of _them_…

Neji catered his cousin to a dismissive glare. Unlike his lethal companion, he chose not to parade his true disgust. Ino slowly petted her gun strap, tapping her fingertips anxiously, almost expectantly waiting for the right cue to draw the weapon. Temari's eyes softened somewhat behind the fan she twirled with her wrist. Shikamaru held no discontent, as he always did, but from his previous action it was obvious there lay a buried respect for the diabetic psychopath. Tenten, meanwhile, showed the absolute contrary in her contorting (and recovering) features. She was obviously surprised that Hinata had arrived, that she could even walk actually…

But no one seemed to be more interested than the disciplined beast that was Gaara. His pupils followed her with a dark hunger, as if she were a tantalizing dumpling he wished to stab in the very heart with the sharpest of forks.

The adrenaline junkie stumbled back twenty feet and scampered towards the paintings.

Hinata quietly took seat on the third bottom step of the right staircase, below Ino's condescending gaze. She leaned her lower back against the stone banister, hunching her body inwards like an apprehensive child, and dug a hand into her long, front bangs. She teased the tips, pulling them down painfully over her eyes, as though utterly bored, owner of a fleeting attention span that needed constant feeding.

Hah…feeding…

The once-panicking champion fell back against the floor unconscious, body adorned with deep scratches and dark bruises, creeping death mere seconds away. It was awkwardly quiet, except for the struggled breathing of the suicidal champion growing fainter and fainter.

And then the slaughtering questions began: What on earth had just happened? Had they, the bystanders, grown so accustomed to bizarre entrances that Hinata's rather dull advancement was almost considered a disappointment? How disgusting! They were actually thirsting for more blood, for more violence?

"Close the doors!"

Hundreds of chins turned towards Hayo Hikaru, whose livid bellow echoed throughout the Hall still. The guards stared at him almost dazed, not comprehending his command.

"**CLOSE THE FUCKING DOORS!"** Hikaru screamed furiously, jabbing a finger towards their clustered group.

They practically sprinted towards the six hundred pound doors, eagerly desiring not to fall victim to Hikaru's legendary wrath. But mostly they finally understood the urgency of the order, the repercussions if it was not followed swiftly. Only Kami knew what else would spring into the hall through the entrance next and terrorize them even further…

Not that locking them had done much good in the past.

Iruka could feel his fingers twitching as he watched the doors being slowly shut. Everyone seemed to be holding their breaths as they regarded the distance between them…about thirty feet still…

An army of demons could still parade through on a carnival float.

He glanced down at the clipboard on the marble, which had slipped from his perspiring grip. He couldn't believe that he was in her presence, her dominating and savage presence. How was she able to transform so wholly? Like a butterfly in the midst of obscure metamorphosis, slowly evolving into some undocumented and ghastly creature. Hinata was able to engage in a mutation far more cunning or dangerous than a mere human to full-scale monster. Instead, she was the monster able to impersonate a mere weeping child…drawing victims near without question.

At this very moment, for example, she seemed as helpless and disoriented as a…as a…

…mental patient…

"_Perhaps I can come up with a simple analogy to help you wrap your little head around this idea." Tsunade addressed him with smug prudence in the bar. "She's like a virus. A virus you don't know you have until you only have seconds to live."_

The oak doors were now fifteen feet apart, possibly awaiting a marching band of demon children.

Iruka sighed heavily, cursing his blatant idiocy when he'd failed to heed Tsunade's warnings. His stubbornness was the sole reason why he had to mentally prep his tired and worn joints for the upcoming kneeling for the clipboard's retrieval. If it weren't for his body's debilitating state something as simple as leaning down and gathering an object off the floor wouldn't seem so unfeasible and excruciatingly painful. Either way, it was now or never, or even later during blistering judgment. Three, two, one…

Iruka bent his knees slightly and an aching thrust pulsated through them. He drew back up quickly, almost as quickly as the clipboard utterly disappeared from the marble in a rush of nothingness.

He almost bolted backwards at the sudden evaporation. With his right foot he patted the now empty space, almost waiting for some sort of trap door to open and drag him down. He crossed his fingers hopefully behind his back. He'd do anything to leave this place. But quite honestly, where on earth had that blasted thing gone?

An arm extended from beside him, clipboard at hand, presenting it to his bent face.

Iruka looked up in fright at his recent fellow companion on the platform.

The entrance doors were six feet apart.

"I believe this belongs to you," the visitor reasoned, with a luxurious undertone.

Iruka's eyes widened with astonishment.

Five feet apart…

Hikaru gritted his teeth and turned, ready to sit upon his throne and throttle the Hokage with his bare hands. That decrepit fool! He'd singlehandedly twisted this situation from simply despicable to downright heinous. But before his eyes could seek the Hokage's composed disguise they fell onto an individual standing beside Iruka on the pedestal. His jaw unhinged immediately, for he'd heard of only one person with such a distinct look.

Someone who had self-perpetuated their own exile.

Iruka closed his eyes with a slender grin. "You know for a second there I didn't think you'd make it."

Four feet apart…

Shikamaru, Ino, Temari, Neji, Tenten, Gaara, Hinata, Karin, Jugo, Suigetsu, and Sasuke, all glanced towards the latest visitor.

Three feet apart…

Iruka accepted the clipboard with warming fingers and nodded his thank you.

Two feet apart…

Kakashi casually flipped a page from the graphic novel in his right hand. He smiled from beneath the mask but never looked up from _The Lost Girls_, even as he felt the piercing eyes of one of his once-pupils digging into his very soul.

One foot apart…

Hands suddenly sprung from between the doors and clasped both, preventing their shutting.

Hikaru stumbled backwards edgily, a harsh realization stabbing his conscious. "No…" he whispered hoarsely with disbelief, nodding his head. _"It can't be…"_

.

-x-

.

…Twenty-Four Hours Prior…

.

-x-

.

The child poked the Spiny Flower Mantis with her index finger brusquely, arousing its body language to shift from a sleepy heap into a threatening pose, by bending its abdomen backwards to reveal an eye-spot in lovely violet. Suri drew back her bandaged finger with slight hesitation, dipping the tip into her soft mouth thoughtfully while admiring the bony creature of some many overlapping colors and shades.

Another small girl, in a sunny bright sundress, approached her while in throaty giggles and grasped her by the hand, dragging her away towards the other five tiny children clustered several feet away and flying paper-kites knitted into animal structures under the roseate sunset and wavy clouds in puffy crimson.

They carelessly sprinted barefoot through the tickling field of thin wheat that sprung up past their waists, arms extended beside themselves as they pretended to be airplanes — craftily jumping over the poppies and daisies and then twirling, or 'spiraling', while make-believing to have lost control and crashing against the soft ground of delicate yellow.

Behind them stood a tipsy wooden house with a wide porch, the three brittle pillars entwined with vines and wild lilies. There lay a large golden bell, very old and heavily cracked, above the rickety tile roof, covered by a makeshift formation consisting of wet lumber and three walls. It clanged loudly in the background of the setting sun but remained ignored by the playful children humming to the buzz of imaginary bees. From afar their cozy home resembled an abandoned church, wilting like a sickened rose. If it were not for the two bamboo poles incrusted into the ground nearby that suspended a clothing line with dangling wrinkled garments, then the home would surely be ridiculed by the charming pastures with the ever-present tease of 'desertion'.

Around them there seemed to reside no other signs of life except the collection of spreading wheat fields and compilations of gloriously towering mountains in faded grey, which waved from afar in all directions you turned, feral with the sensible life of unpolluted involvement. There were no more built cottages, or pesky neighbors, surely no power lines, crude billboards or graveled roads.

So the vintage Mustang convertible, indiscernible between an eighty-five or eighty-six model, parked beside the ancient house, above the crushed grass and underneath the effervescent sky was strangely out of place.

Kakashi's Beatle boots harvested loud thuds while he walked over the hollow wood of the veranda. He strode forward with suave poise into the main living quarters of the abode, the doors were appropriately open thus 'breaking and entering' couldn't possibly be used as a cheap ploy for this person to be rid of his presence in a snappy jiff. He straightened the collar of his twill trench coat, in olive brown, as he finally made it inside the wide living room, whose décor more suitably labeled the space as a meditation chamber or foreign chapel.

Kakashi did not dwell on the specifics of the odd room, mainly since his eyes instantly focused onto the target of his obscenely long, and unpractical, cross-country journey. It was rather hard to miss his subject since there lay only one black-robed figure in the chamber, in the heart of it in fact. The feisty individual who'd cost him more than three month's worth in gas was kneeling before a brass statue (or was it saint?) with eight perfectly balanced and contorted arms. The room was bare and uncomfortable, homing a single tatami mat and about a hundred pillar candles, self-standing and rectangular shaped…burned almost to the end of their wicks…

There lay an assortment of cold steel benches behind the praying character, twelve in total, and with a daintily thin clearing in the middle that Kakashi was walking through at this very moment. His dark sunglasses dimmed the lighting of the room even further than it was, but he still breezily found a fitting seat to take on the second row to the right, and swiftly propped up his impure-city feet up on the bench in front, by his ankles in truth. He perched his arms onto the fringe of the bench he sat upon, creating a rather relaxed and pretentious Greek God pose.

The kneeling individual gripped the round prayer beads more rigidly, and releasing a resigned sigh opened disobedient eyes with a pious sparkle. With effortless stealth, second nature even after years of repressed dexterity, he rose. He turned half-profile towards Kakashi's direction with a neutral glance but amiable pupils, hinting a shred of expectance.

Kakashi lowered his chin, the sunglasses slipped to mid-noise. "Forgive me father, for I have sinned." He confessed lethargically, with a crooked grin.

Naruto smiled despite of himself and stroked the spiritual black beads in his hands gently, eyes transcending to the outside playground. "Do you repent?" he solicited, halfheartedly.

"Do you?" Kakashi snapped back analytically, patting the empty seat beside him keenly.

Naruto ignored the cordial gesture and instead walked across from him to the far left corner of the room. With simple light puffs he began blowing out the flaming candles, one by one.

"I was only slightly spectacle at first," Kakashi began with a practiced storytelling voice (Suri's doing), as he rested his neck back and examined the surprisingly high ceiling of molding timber. He'd inadvertently sat right below the bell. "The rumors of _The Great Fox Demon_ being swallowed into the moldering pits of Hell, retrieved by Satan himself."

"I was sent back up," Naruto commented humorously, looking over his shoulder in the midst of his ministration, "overcrowding."

_No doubt…_

Kakashi swallowed the telling statement and instead settled to inspect the Buddhist statuette in the center of the chamber. He was smirking openly now, with greedy self-assurance. "However, I quickly grew unconvinced. For you see the Sun cannot be detained by the earth. The earth cannot live without the Sun. Thus I could only conclude, through effortless analogy, that he was merely hiding behind the Moon. And with a simple phone call to the Moon, she justly pointed her slender finger in your direction."

"The Moon is unreliable." Naruto murmured, tone submissive and peaceful.

"The Moon is intrigued." Kakashi corrected and then stood with a jubilant jolt. "But enough about her, let us speak about the purpose of my wonderful visit — I have come to set you free!" he announced with cold dramatics.

Naruto turned completely, clearly taken off-guard, and laughed good-naturedly. "From what cage?"

"Your self-inflicted shackles," Kakashi answered immediately and then gestured to the outside fields with his palm. "It's time to be reunited into the wild and roam with your fellow predators."

Naruto glared at a violet hill in the far distance. "The beast has fed its hunger."

"Yes, but it's dying of thirst." Kakashi assured, walking closer with the gracefulness of assassination. "Besides, you're the only one the King considers a worthy adversary."

Naruto coiled the slimy-textured beads around his wrists, swallowing roughly, and momentarily losing passivity. "Sasuke can keep the throne."

Kakashi smirked boastingly, crossing his arms. Only few dared to say Sasuke's name aloud, let alone with such palpable contempt. It was obvious that the Uchiha did not scare a hair off the once vibrant blonde.

"He can keep the title." Naruto continued, returning to the foregoing serene voice.

"And you will stay what?" Kakashi requested, examining his plain appearance with intense, but unbiased, scrutiny. "A Buddhist monk? The practitioner of heavy meditation? A Zen Master with no pupil? The caretaker of six orphans? Or the most dynamic: a retired Samurai with a stored sword?"

Naruto revealed no discontent although Kakashi had just openly discarded his most precious secrets. He'd cynically lectured the revelations as though he was absolutely unaware of the ever-passing history and had been absent or unconscious throughout every ordeal.

"I must say it's a first." Kakashi offered, and then swiftly retrieved a dagger from the inner pockets of his jacket. He began throwing the jagged being up and down in his hands, every time grasping it perfectly by the handle. "A missing ninja who falls under the teachings of a Samurai, the legendary Katsumoto no less — probably the greatest Samurai to have ever existed, whose excelled technique could not be taught properly to any pupil. When the Moon told me of your past…_adventures_…I must confess I was baffled and very amused. Imagining a hyperactive Naruto embracing a Samurai sword while passively surrounding his enemy, anticipating his next move instead of charging forward thoughtlessly definitely brought a giggle or two. It thought it quite impossible."

Naruto's lips curled downwards from their thin-lined disposition. This was the first time Kakashi had uttered his name. "That's not my name anymore." He announced.

The dagger flipped in midair.

"Everyone's changing their names nowadays. I'm thinking of going by K now, sounds kind of cool, don't you think?"

Naruto smiled again, closing his eyes with reverence. "You haven't changed at all."

Kakashi twirled the handle between his fingers.

Naruto turned towards the second set of lit candles below the first chain, blowing softly like a tamed wolf.

"I can't say the same." Kakashi declared with the reminiscence of a frown, and then unexpectedly hurled the dagger at Naruto's oblivious back.

In the fraction of a monotone second the intended target rotated towards the approaching dagger, a glistening blade appearing from the inner folding of his right arm and then slipping down to his curled fingers. He held the handle firmly, and with an effortless airborne coil released the silver beast from its fabric cell and breezily cut the ominous dagger in two with a simple sideways projection of the sword.

The useless separated scraps fell to the floor with a jingly clatter.

Kakashi's eyes playfully traced the striking sword from its very tip to its possessor's alert face. "…or can I?" he finished.

Naruto's cryptic features softened.

"Shouldn't that thing be hanging on one of the walls somewhere?" Kakashi challenged, raising a brow knowingly.

"I'm a monk, _Kakashi_, not a moron." Naruto demurred, not backing down from his defensive stance still.

Kakashi leaned back against one of the icy benches, crossing his arms once more. "Reclaim your throne. How long do you think you can keep your head whilst trying?"

It was almost an order, the itching reminiscence of a mission…

"I don't fight for the sake of fighting. I solely protect those I love. If they're not standing within that field out there playing with Suri, then they can rot in Hell."

Naruto straightened guardedly and placed the sword back within the sheath in his cloak's arm loudly. He lowered his arms to lie beside his body, the fingers of his left hand brushing the sword's handle edgily.

"That's not very priesty…" Kakashi chided.

Naruto smiled, surrendering to fact. "I'm a priest not a saint."

Kakashi laughed sardonically, tapping his fingertips to his mouth. "Don't tell me you're under the Code of the Samurai? We could use someone with your exorcism skills on our side."

Naruto's eyes roamed his once-sensei's appearance. He could clearly remember several occasions in turbulent youth he'd unsuccessfully tried to unmask Kakashi with rather severe consequences ensuing. One in specific being the night when he was tied by his ankle to a water tower for almost six hours, solely in his underwater…below an adult-entertainment club. And now here was the white-haired spasm, directly exposing his face with not a gist of objection. His mocking subjection only made Naruto wish for his hasty departure.

"Exorcisms don't work." Naruto replied.

"I was thinking more along the lines of ripping a body to shreds and setting the soul free." Kakashi said in one breath.

The addressed narrowed his eyes with glinting disgust for the first time. "That's murder."

Kakashi shrugged his shoulders. "If that's your interpretation…"

"I'm merely reading between _your_ lines, Kakashi…" Naruto glanced back to the opened entrance doors of burnished oak. "You have till nightfall to be on your way. I don't wish to make this into some sort of spectacle, especially since Suri is here."

"Suri is on your fields now but when she leaves will she still be under your protection?"

Yards away, Suri obediently sat on the ground daintily still while Kaoru carefully plucked out small wheat residues from her chestnut curls.

Naruto's eyes pierced Kakashi's. "She doesn't need my protection. She has a father who is more than capable of swinging a few measly daggers around." He scorned, the corners of his mouth twitching up.

"I'm a little rusty, you got lucky." Kakashi replied, just as Naruto passed his form and headed towards the sole exit slowly.

"I can change your mind." Kakashi assured, obstinately, not turning to watch his march down the path between the rowed benches of parallel six.

"Concretely doubt it."

Kakashi glared at the silent, worn candles. "All it takes is one word."

"Don't use Kami's name in vain."

"Oh it's a name. But it's _far_ from God's…"

Naruto stopped abruptly before the doorframe, fingernails digging into his palms.

The warm sun crashed against his still form, tinting the wooden floor with _two_ omen-crafted shadows.

Suri's hands slipped down her rosy cheeks and she grinned blissfully. "…ready or not — here I come!"

.

-x-

.

The demanding hands forced the grand doors further open with supple agility, as though the decorative oak was gorged with mere peacock feathers. The exhausted guards groaned noisily and gritted their teeth while they tried to prevent the expansion of the one-foot gate valley. Some leaned against the doors with their backs, feet sliding roughly on the ground, leaving deep dents in their wake on the marble. Others spread their palms against the wood, their aching arm muscles could be seen vibrating with weakening strain. But the narrow passageway grew wider and wider, as though no one stood on the other side of the doors, and expanded from one foot to two, to three, to four.

_Remember the name…_

_Your name…_

"By God…" Hikaru whispered huskily, with heaping desperation, and then turned his discolored face towards the Hokage's crimson silk throne. "_What have you_ _done?_" he accused.

This was possibly the most cynical metaphor to ever cross his mind, but Iruka had to disgustingly confess that his heart was clamoring with the speed of an 'out-of-control locomotive'. Working every blood vessel to the core and drying the black grease to chunky paste. Fuck doctor's orders, he was getting back on the Valium religiously.

The doors slid several more feet forward, aroused by a delicate shove from the outside, causing all twelve guards to fall backwards either onto their fronts or backs painfully, and rather ungracefully for men of their caliber.

Instantly, all of the councilmen rose from their thrones in utter horror and disbelief.

The casually seated Hokage tapped one of the mesmerized catering servers on the shoulder. "Do you possibly have any Vodka on that tray?" he solicited, resting his chin upon his palm.

There was a grave and fierce shift within the throngs, as blurred shadows pushed through like starving ghouls of the desert. The once hidden shinobi fraction emerged from the shaky dusk corners, and pranced onto the banisters on all three stories of the Hall. The uniformed predators clasped kunai with crackling black chakra, and formed protective parallel lines before the spectators.

A small child tugged at her mother's skirt. "Mommy, what is it?"

"…_wow_…" a young woman not far and also in the midst of the crowds gasped softly.

There stood a trembling elder beside her, with glistening sweat pouring down his cheeks like an overflowing stream. He turned horrified eyes onto the naïve teenager, clearly disgusted by her enthralled breath and almost erotic fascination.

"Who is that?" the spellbound girl asked, oblivious to his quivering knees, to the dead silence of the herded lambs surrounding her. For her eyes refused to break contact with the last participant; her sole focus on the standing figure on the other side of the imperial doors beneath the full moon and dark blue clouds.

"**That**," the old man began, with twitching eyelids, "is the monster responsible for disfiguring half of the Hokage's face." He gritted his teeth, every syllable dripping with contained nausea. "Satan's very son and the most rabid of earthbound demons. You silly girl and uneducated brute! _That_…is Naruto Uzumaki, the legendary and infamous Fox Demon."

The itching repulsion and hyper melancholy spread through the lines with the velocity of a dazed mosquito, from row to row, from throng to throng, from floor to floor, and from mouths to ears. Soon after the sheep's found their true voice, in the steady collection of 'mafia'. Iruka was getting sickened by the same monotonic questions and comments: "I thought he was dead!" — "Impossible…he was last seen over three years ago…" — "Apparently even Hell rejects such a despicable being." — "…anyone else think we're totally fucked?"

Iruka restrained himself from raising his hand.

Keep the faith. Salvation is painted in red.

Instead, his bewildered stare hooked onto said spoken topic, which finally advanced into the hyperventilating hall. Iruka expected for his eyelids to soften with the long-forgotten yet innate feeling of compassion. Compassion for the bright and sunny blond with the ardent dream of once being crowned Hokage, oblivious to his agitating childish behavior and true power behind his hyperactive stamina. For the Diary of Naruto held more than a few ripped pages and nosebleed stains. But the advancing figure did not evoke such an emotion. All Iruka felt was apprehension, and far beyond comprehendible intimidation, as images of monstrous paws printed on the chattered roads of Konoha and slashed homes of victims ravaged his mind. For just like that, one life transcended to another.

And Naruto was no more.

Instead his presence ensued like a heavy, odorless poisonous gas; causing many of the trembling bodies in the throngs to become overwhelmed and either collapse on a neighbor or lose consciousness entirely and plummet to the floor. Meanwhile, Naruto continued a silky and calm stride forward, allowing Iruka to digress his appearance with less shafting overpower from such a distance.

Of course, the energetic blond had not relinquished a hair; it was a vanity he'd seized to surrender. His diamond blue eyes had a concentrated will of calmness, leading to his lips being gently balanced into an expression of utter peace, quiet, and sleek dissertation of poetic origin. Those tattooed whiskers braced his cheeks like proud scars of war…

But just as Iruka's eyes lowered, to examine his colorful and unique attire violence erupted like a steaming volcano.

The final chosen victor, the one who sat beside the hidden shinobi, rose from his chair in an instant and split into a sprint towards Naruto. Before anyone could utter a single word the 'champion' had long passed Naruto's side and was heading straight for the open front gates, screaming, "Are you fucking crazy! I'm not suicidal!"

Iruka watched the back of his head grow fainter and fainter, a grin spreading upon his face.

And then a bullet flew through the air, and blew his skull to pieces. Iruka jumped back in surprise, watching tidbits of brain spill into the air like scattered appetizers before raining down onto a headless body under a dark pool of black blood. His eyes twitched while a heinous taste violated his tongue; he looked away in disgust far too late.

So much for not watching a head explode…

"Sorry!" Ino called from the top of the staircase, with a cheery tone, and then petted the silver multi-barreled gun in her hands. "Daisy just had to shoot something today. Didn't you girl?"

Once you start naming your guns, it all goes downhill from there.

Naruto reached her staircase, and rested his back against the small pillar from which the banister sprung out of, not at all surprised by her antics. Beside him, about six feet away and also resting casually, laid a huddled Hinata in mute delusion. Her eyes seemed to be boring holes into her kneels, while her slight frown deepened to a satisfied sneer.

Overhead, Sasuke merely scowled, reminiscent to a preying eagle.

"Besides, I hate pussies." Ino insisted, placing the gun finally into her hip holster.

"…says the rageaholic."

"That's understandable, considering you don't have one."

Temari and Shikamaru turned their faces to one another, amused, after their simultaneous responses.

Ino imitated a wolf cry. "Be a good boy and I'll get you a muzzle." She mocked excitedly, winking at Shikamaru.

He rolled his eyes.

"I would gift you with a response Temari but your pathetic existence couldn't get far worse." She brought a hand to her heart. "And I have a heart, thus I won't throw such a cruel fact into your ever-changing face."

Temari giggled, coiling another strand around her index finger. "Gosh, you're making this so difficult! I can't decide whether I want to eat your heart with black beans or ginger."

Iruka began coughing hysterically. Why the hell did he have to be a 'visual learner'?

The Hokage sighed, finally rising from his throne (tall glass at hand) and spreading his arms — thus addressing his people. "It seems this ceremony has finally come to a conclusion!" he declared. Those words caused the other six councilmen to swiftly sit down with blank stares of stupidity. The dawning realization that they were never in control hit its peak. "The council and I will now accompany our festive militia into a discussion dinner. But thank you all for attending our humble reception and we hope that you feel as secure about our future as I feel about it."

Iruka officially hated sarcasm.

The Hokage clapped his hands together. "Let us feast!"

Iruka gave him a disbelieving look. Who could possibly still be hungry?

"Oh good," Temari piped, "I'm starving."

He narrowed his eyes. Oh, of course…

He looked down at his trembling hands, at the paper-brimming plank inviting him in. He was quite literally holding on to the memoirs…of the departed…

_Who'd all risen from the dead for this very occasion._

The lucky, bloody thirteen. And one flimsy puppet…

He glanced at the wandering pervert beside him, the one deeply absorbed reading porn before thousands of people. Kakashi returned the stare with lazy glazed pupils. Iruka narrowed his eyes. "Hurrah?" was his pathetic cheer.

Kakashi did not answer, nor did he look away. The hairs on the back of his Iruka's neck stood, prickling…almost tingling. All he could read from Kakashi's expression was — annoyed exasperation?

The Eastern Hall began to violently shake; as yet another ominous earthquake split the ground and gritted craters. Only now the ice palace within began to split like expensive glass, sending sharp chards of solid water and perfect icicles down onto the pedestrians below.

Yells broke out as they all began to push against one another aggressively, trying to escape at the same time while intense hysteria broke loose.

Dust permeated as the original structures cracked apart …

.

-x-

.

Kakashi bounced down the porch's steps, a satisfied smirk on his face. He catered the horizon to a vague glance as he searched for his daughter's coordinates within the dense wheat field. But when his feet reached the golden grass after murmuring their soft goodbye to the aging wood, his eyes immediately focused on his shiny black convertible.

For you see, at this very second, on the faded leather passenger seat, rested someone half-reclined with their feet confidently on the dashboard…while glaring up at the darkening clouds…

Kakashi closed his eyes as he dug a hand into his white locks clumsily. "…I take it you want to play too?"

.

-x-

.

The world ceased to shake.

Iruka squinted his eyes, trying to make out shapes through the fog of rubble. It slowly began to concentrate into the center, which allowed him to catch sight of the Hokage just as he fell backwards onto his throne. A man whose composure never faltered, even under the most unstable of circumstances, and here he was — eyes wide — jaw unhinged — white fists clenched…

He seemed to be two intakes of breath away from a heart attack.

Gaara smirked, obviously pleased.

The child tugged at her mother's skirt. "Mommy…I'm scared!" she hiccupped between sobs. "What's happened?"

Her mother bit her trembling lower lip. "…who…who is that?"

The fog faded and the hidden shadow within emerged into existence.

Iruka's eyes widened dangerously. "It's…"

The Tectonic Bitch.

Sasuke's lips quirked into a cynical smirk. "…Sakura Haruno…"

And just like that, it began to snow.

.

-x-

.

* * *

**AN:** The only true uninvited guest has finally arrived.

_Have some wine,' the March Hare said in an encouraging tone._

_Alice looked all round the table, but there was nothing on it but tea. `I don't see any wine,' she remarked._

_`There isn't any,' said the March Hare._

_`Then it wasn't very civil of you to offer it,' said Alice angrily._

_`It wasn't very civil of you to sit down without being invited,' said the March Hare. _

**PS:** Thank you for all the favorites, messages, and alerts, it's very motivating and I hope you continue enjoying my little twisted fairytale. Also, before I get any heated comments, no, Ino doesn't really have herpes. It's just a quirk to get her reeled up.


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